Dance with the Devil
by Megana
Summary: As London's greatest threat hangs over the gang at Lower 221 Baker Street and the criminal underworld, Meg, Basil and Ratigan are forced to confront their own love issues when faced with an unlikely source- a mentally depressed girl.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

* * *

Meg: Hi there. I know I said three years ago that I had retired from the fanfiction world. I am now in college and about to graduate in one year, go to grad school for either Middle Eastern history or law, and am informally engaged. Yes, I said _engaged,_ and I will not explain why it is informal right now.

I am once again delving into the world of GMD for several reasons:

1) My creative writing has suffered greatly since I dropped it. Most of my writings usually consist of articles on local city activists or therapy dogs, and my papers for classes often require my research into topics such as Jewish nationalist or eighteenth century shipwrecks in the South Sea and how many sailors mutinied against their commanding officers.

2) That novel I am editing is still in the works, but life has caught up with me. I need to step away from it for awhile to figure out where I want to go with it.

3) I've been working on this story on and off for the past two years or so, and think it would successfully end the Meg Sarentis series once and for all.

4) I miss writing new things for Ratigan to say.

5) I also miss writing about girls like Rose McGeady.

6) I hope to dispel any silly thoughts and fantasies about "true" love. This means that any character in this story is in danger of having their hopes and dreams dashed against a rock. At least one person will die.

7) In case you haven't noticed, I've been cynical since I created Rose McGeady. This strain has continued on into my college years. The real world is not as pretty as I had hoped, and I would like to share some of that knowledge in the only useful outlet I have ever found for expressing my emotions in a healthy, productive way.

So sit back, relax, and hopefully enjoy. I pray that I am not too rusty in creative writing after a three year hiatus. As always, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.

* * *

October 1903

A tall man with dark eyes, long, thin white hair, long legs and a bulky torso entered a thread factory in London's East End, the air humming with the drone of machines and children. He removed a rotted wood board from one of the walls, went down the rickety iron stairs and rapped out a quick _ratatatat_ on the rusted door at the bottom of the stairwell. There is a rough sack slung over his shoulder, his body hunched over as if he had been born in that position.

The creaky door opened a crack and the dull orange glare of a lantern shone in his face. Then the door closed, only to reopen moments later revealing two smaller men. One had a shock of red hair, the other a dirty blue cap pulled over his head as he placidly smoked a cigarette.

"Whatcha got there, Mayhew?" the redhead asked.

The man pointed to his sack.

"Ah, I see. Anythin' for us?"

The man pointed to the one in the cap.

"Hey Harry, you hear that?" You've got somethin'."

"Well ain't that grand," the blue cap said, disinterested.

Maybe started to pass the two door-keepers. "Hey Mayhew, ain't ya gonna give Harry his mail?" the redhead said.

Mayhew ignored him and continued on his way.

"Hey Harry, doncha want your letters?" the redhead asked, confused.

"Shuddup, slug!" Harry said, tossing his cigarette at the redhead.

"Why?"

Harry grabbed the slug by the collar and pointed to Mayhew, limping his way into the obscurity of the subterranean passage. Slug watched until the man disappeared.

"Why must ya talk to 'im ever time 'e comes down 'ere?" Harry hissed. "Ye expecting a love letter from yer sweet-'earted 'ore?"

"I don't 'ave a sweetheart," Slug muttered. "I jest like makin' talk. Mayhew don't talk to no one, and it gives me the willies."

"Well, it gives me the willies when ye start bombarding 'im with questions!"

"Why?"

"Listen Slug, I know yer new 'round 'ere, so ye don't know 'ow things work out. Mayhew ain't like ye and me. 'E's different. 'E's been 'round 'ere since before the Boss, lurking 'round corners, keepin' an eye on things. 'E knows ever thing that goes on, 'as gone on, and will go on in this neighborhood. 'E's like the divvil 'imself- every where and nowhere." Harry looked around, then leaned close to Slug, as if taking the man into his confidence. "They says 'is 'ead got scrambled in Balaclava."

The red-head looked confused.

Apparently Harry did not feel the need to elaborate, for he then said:

"So shuddup and keep yer words to yerself. Ye may set 'im off at any time. The Boss wouldn't like that now, would 'e?"

* * *

The hunched man entered a brightly lit room covered with mahogany paneling and intricate carvings on the doorway and the ceiling. Within the room were several men and two women. The five men wore identical black suits with matching black ties. One of them was playing a melancholy tune on an accordion, while the others were engaged in a somewhat heated debate about the French in Algiers.

One of the women, a dark-haired, middle-aged woman with a deeply lined face and a gaudy assortment of cosmetics plastered on her wrinkled visage helped herself to an assortment of candies on a ceramic dish on the table in front of her. The second, a pale young woman with lighter hair and dark circles under her eyes sat reading a book, at a distance from the others.

Seeing Mayhew, one of the five quintuplets, this one differing from his fellows by his short, albino-white fur, said, "Hey boys, it's Saint Nick or Old Nick! I cannot tell the difference. I think he's come for you, Lisa!"

The dark-haired woman nodded slightly, not even glancing up.

"All right Mayhew, what do you have for us today?" the young man said as he got to his feet, his clones following close behind him. The hunched man brought his sack to the ground. The albino took the sack and dumped the contents on the floor. "All right boys, go to it."

The four men began to sort through the various letters and packages, the albino presiding over their work.

The young woman with the light hair set her book aside and rose from her seat. Approaching Mayhew, she looked shyly up at him. "Is there anything for me?" she asked softly.

Mayhew slowly reached into his jacket and drew out a worn brown envelope from its depths.

The girl's eyes grew bright and luminous. "It is from-?"

The man's lips turned slightly upward. The creature before him, taking it as a smile, thanked him profusely as she gently accepted the envelope.

She sank back into her chair and gazed at the envelope for a few moments. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the scratchy script that had written the address.

Mayhew left the room silently, none observing his departure.

The letter was opened, and the many pages of correspondence in her hands. She eagerly read the "Dearest Lydia" and was moving to the next line of poor penmanship when she felt a presence near her.

"What do we have here?" a cold voice asked behind her.

"Nothing of importance," Lydia murmured, trying to position herself so the albino could not see what was written on the paper.

"Really? Then why are you hiding it?" the albino asked, snatching the letter from her hands.

She spun around, the blood rushing to her cheeks. "Give that back!" she sputtered angrily. "It's mine!"

"It hasn't gone through proper censoring," he replied. "We don't want your sweet innocence being corrupted now, do we?"

"It's a personal letter!"

"All the more reason to censor it." He held the pages up to the light. "'Dearest Lydia,'" he read in a matter-of-fact tone, "'I hope you are doing well in your new home. I write this letter with the wish that you are pleased there. I am now on the march, preparing to fight the natives. We are all going to Hell. We are all going to die.'"

The girl jumped to her feet. "Give it back!" she cried, trying to grab the letter from the reader's hand.

He warded her off easily with his free hand. "'Stop asking me so many questions, for I cannot stand to see you cry. But I cannot lie to you- we are all going to die, and you must not blame me for it.'"

"Gerard!" She made another vain attempt for the letter. The others in the room gathered around, interested in the sport.

"'They lie about Paradise; there is no such thing, and we can only become one as chemical matter in death. There is not enough room in a coffin for two.'"

"You're making it up!" she yelled.

"Me? Why would I make it up?" Gerard asked innocently, handing the letter to the young, dark-haired man next to him. "You've been expecting word for weeks now; why would I cause pain to that precious heart of yours?" he asked, placing his arm around her. "Mikey, read the dear child the rest of the letter."

Mikey cleared his throat. "'I have a bottle of arsenic ready. I will not let those savage beasts of this land take me; I shall control my fate.'"

Gerard restrained the girl from rushing Mikey. "Let me go!"

"'This war, this infection, is spreading through my toes, up my legs. There is no hope unless they can amputate at once-'"

"Stop it, Gerard, stop it!" she screamed, beginning to cry.

"'I want to die soon. This fevered wasteland is surely worse than Hell, where I shall soon be going. We are all going to die. Tomorrow we go into battle, and I yearn for it, to plunge myself into the demonic hordes to meet the Devil-'"

She pulled herself out of Gerard's grasp, and fled to an open doorway, where she ran into a large rat coming through the door. He caught her and looked down at her usually pale face, now flushed, tear-stained, and disturbed. "What is going on?" he asked.

She looked too stupefied to reply.

"Well? Answer me!" he barked.

"Ge… Gerard to-took a letter from me, and was fa-fa-fabricating its contents."

The rat, who was wearing a black suit, purple and pink striped cravat, opera cape and top hat, had a long, wormlike tail and a weathered, malicious face. He stepped into the room, still holding the girl. Another young woman with blonde hair piled neatly on top of her head, wearing an outfit fitting a professional woman, followed him into the room, keenly observing the scene before her with sharp grayish blue eyes.

"Gerard," the large man said.

"Yes, Professor?" the albino replied, coming to attention. His lackeys mimicked his moves.

"Who is the letter from?"

"Parker."

"Where is it from?"

"South German Africa."

"And what does it say?"

"The contents of the letter are so disturbing that it would not be proper to disclose them to you at this time-" he nodded to Lisa, Lydia, and the third woman, "-in the presence of the ladies. If you will, however, allow me to show you the letter in private-"

"How did you get this letter?" Ratigan asked the girl.

"Mayhew gave it to me. It came with the rest of the mail."

"Did it go through my censors?"

"No… it's a private letter, sir, addressed to me-"

"I don't care if it was addressed to Arthur Balfour himself!" the large man roared. "When you're under my care all outside articles are analyzed and approved by Gerard before falling into your hands. Is that understood?"

The girl glared at him. "I never solicited your aid in taking care of me, Professor!"

"Listen to her!" Ratigan laughed, his voice cruel in her ears. "'Oh no, _don't_ look out for me, poor Lydia, who was living in the slums before Professor Ratigan came along and saved me.' Isn't that so, Gerard?"

"She would have starved to death if it hadn't been for you, sir."

"No, I would have not!"

"Silence!" Ratigan snapped, slapping her across the mouth.

The blonde woman next to him grabbed his arm. Ratigan pushed her away.

Lydia held her hand to her mouth.

"You're using me right now, and I know it," Ratigan snarled. "You sit here all day, reading, not doing anything useful. You're no good to anyone. I should kick you out, because that is the last thing you want me to do. You know you have to stay here, or else you wouldn't get any of your precious letters, any word of Parker. But I'm warning you- Lisa knows an Abbess, and I will send you to her. Mark my words—if I have anything to do with it, you will become a regular Ladybird!"

Lydia's eyes grew wide. "Please, no, Professor… that's why Shaun left, to ensure that I wouldn't have to resort to that! I just want to read my letter, Professor—"

"You will do as I say. Is that understood?"

The girl nodded. "Yes," she breathed, before rushing out of the room.

Mayhew stood behind the outer door, peering through a crack at the scene within.

"What a spoilt child," Lisa announced before shoving another candy in her mouth.

"The letter, Gerard," Ratigan said, holding out a hand.

The albino complied, handing him the letter.

"Hmmm…" Ratigan glanced over the worn pieces of paper.

The blonde woman next to him folded her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. Giving a grunt he crumbled up the correspondence and thrust it in his pocket. She cleared her throat.

He shot her a sideways glance and suddenly appeared exasperated. "Don't give me that look."

"Who is the girl, James?" the blonde woman asked.

"No one of importance," Ratigan said, waving his hand. "Would you like some tea, my dear?"

"Who are you torturing this time?" the blonde woman demanded.

"Anything interesting in the mail, Gerard?" Ratigan asked, moving away from the blonde woman.

"Most of the usual business, some stuff for the greener guys, Miss Lyon's information…" here the albino picked up a thick envelope and extended it, with a slight bow, to the blonde woman.

She flashed a grinned as she accepted it. "Thank you, Mr. Wade. This is very helpful indeed. Not too much trouble to obtain, I hope?"

"Not if you know the right people," Gerard said with a wink. "And sir, there's a letter from Nickels."

He snatched the letter from Gerard's hands, broke the seal and eagerly began to scan the letter.

"Who is Nickels?" Lyon asked Gerard.

"I am not at liberty to say," the albino said cautiously, looking at Ratigan. "The professor has lots of—"

"Could I have peace and quiet for ONE moment?" Ratigan snapped.

The room fell silent.

Lyon shrugged and opened her envelope. She shivered in excitement at the leaf of papers within. She had an urge to go home and began reading all the information at once; she had been waiting for it for months.

A small snickering was heard from the Napoleon of Crime. In a few moments it turned into a laugh, only to become a full-fledged guffaw. He bent over and held his sides, laughing uncontrollably.

"I didn't know that your mail was so funny, James," Lyon dryly remarked.

Ratigan came over to her, still laughing. "Oh, this is too perfect!" he gasped out. "It's perfect, and you're going to see how… how… it is going to happen!"

"What is going to happen?"

Ratigan picked her up and spun her around. "I am finally-" he stopped and looked at the bewildered faces of Gerard and his clones and Lisa gaping at them.

He put Lyon down and offered her his arm. "Shall we discuss the matter in private?" he asked. Lyon nodded.

They left through the door Lydia had run through.

There was a moment of silence preceding this departure. Then one of the clones spoke up. "What's with the Boss and Miss Lyon anyway? You think she's…"

"She's what?" another one of them asked.

"Eh, I dunno. But she's here an awful lot, and she seems to know the Boss so well."

"A little too well," Lisa said in disgust. "How many young women is he going to bring in here?"

"I like Miss Lyon," Mikey said. "She keeps the professor in check. Maybe it's good that she's here. Ever since she's been coming here she's been keeping him calm."

"He needs it with Lydia around," another clone said. "That girl seems to infuriate him."

"Lydia," Gerard muttered, chuckling darkly. "Poor, sweet Lydia. Poor, stupid girl. I've never seen a girl rub him the wrong way like Lydia does."

"Why does he keep her here?" Lisa asked.

"For the same reason that I make her cry," Gerard said. "For amusement."

Mayhew limped off into the darkness.

* * *

In the dark, frigid October evening Lyon strolled home, taking in the sight of the lit gas lamps in the autumn gloom. She shivered slightly to herself as a cold wind whistled through the alleys. She waved to a few of the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Most ignored her, but a few did a double-take, or nudged their companions and pointed.

The young woman could not help but grin.

She listened to her boots _thunk_ on the sidewalk, and her smile widened. She lightly swung her umbrella and patted the heavy canvas bag hanging by her side.

She turned to a house with a brick exterior. Bouncing up the steps, she opened the door and entered the building.

A young servant girl with dark hair neatly pinned up under a white cap met her at the door. "Good evening Miss Lyon."

"Evening, Mary."

"A gentleman was here to see you earlier today."

"Oh, really?" Lyon said, stopping halfway up the stairs. "Who was it?"

"Mr. Basil of Baker Street. He called around tea time. I let him into the parlour, but when you didn't come he left."

Lyon's eyes briefly flickered. "Oh? When did he leave?"

"About two hours ago."

She let out a long breath. "Thank you, Mary." She then continued up the stairs.

Up one flight, two flights, three flights Lyon climbed. She then came to a door on the last landing. Unlocking it, she opened the door and entered the room beyond.

It was not a large room, but fairly orderly and strict in appearance. There was a single bed against one wall with a drab brown quilt, next to which was a washstand with a porcelain pitcher and dish and some other toiletries. A battered, leather-bound trunk sat at the foot of the bed. Across the room, by the window, was a small desk covered with writing implements, newspaper articles, open or heavily marked books and a typewriter. Next to that was a bookshelf, each of the volumes arraigned by size. A stove stood by the door along with a small table and two chairs. The table had a plain light blue tablecloth, a lantern, and a pitcher of dead rosebuds in it.

Lyon put a few lumps of coal in the stove, turned on the gaslights and went to the desk. Clearing off all of the papers and books and placing them neatly on the floor, she took out the envelope she had received earlier that day.

Emptying out the contents, she held an article on top up to the light and examined it. She looked at a drawing of a man with long hair, dark eyes and a cold, unwelcoming face. She began making notes in the margins of the paper.

_So this man is wanted by the Napoleon of Crime as well as Mouseland Yard,_ she thought to herself. _He could be even more dangerous than Ratigan himself._

Lyon recalled with a frown a one day in late June when she had gone to Baker Street. Mrs. Judson had shown her in, adding that she would alert Mr. Basil to her presence. Lyon had waited, looking about the messy flat in mild interest. She caught the strains of a voice like an angel's, beautiful and pure, singing a song of heartbreak. A violin accompanied the heavenly tones. She had heard it from outside, but had assumed it was coming from the next house.

In a few moments the music abruptly stopped. Lyon perked her ears, hearing some noise from the kitchen, and then Basil of Baker Street burst through the door.

"Miss Lyon!" he said, exposing his eagerness. In three strides he was in front of her, vigorously shaking her hand and leading her to a chair. "What brings you here?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Basil," Lyon said, taken aback by this behaviour. "I'm actually here to talk to you about a piece I'm doing on…"

Lyon stopped as another person entered the room. Her blue eyes met the dark eyes of a chestnut-haired beauty a few years younger than she. The woman was tall and had a sweet and curious face. But, when her eyes fell upon Lyon, they clouded over and the face formed into a dark expression of bitterness bordering on hatred.

Lyon looked from the woman to Basil, and then back to the woman again. The woman folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen door.

"… a piece I'm writing about Geoffrey Dagnar," she finished, looking at Basil. "I understand that you have been following him for the past several years."

Basil frowned. "Yes, I have. But I was not aware that Geoffrey Dagnar's presence in the criminal world was public knowledge," he said shortly. "How did you find out about him?"

Lyon, glancing at the dark-haired woman, gave a little uneasy laugh. "Not from where you'd think, Mr. Basil. I was interviewing an inmate, a Mr. Karl Sidney, at the Nottingham Correctional Institution, actually. He let the name slip. I wasn't aware of its importance until he was assaulted by another inmate soon after I left, one who was about to be released the next day. Sidney was killed. The other inmate received an additional 18 months hard labour."

"Who is the murderer?"

"A petty thief by the name of Ben Worsely. He had been sentenced to three months' hard labour for stealing petticoats from a merchant. It wasn't a first offense, and he has a record of assaulting people before, usually lady friends."

"Hmmm. And what was Sidney interred for?"

"Embezzlement. He was a bank clerk. He pocketed somewhere around 2,000 pounds before he was caught."

The young woman's mouth dropped. Basil nodded. "So you think that Dagnar told these two to commit those crimes?"

Lyon raised her eyebrow. "Are you mocking me, Mr. Basil?"

"No, not at all," Basil said with a hint of a smile. "I would, however, like to hear what you think of the matter."

Lyon shrugged. "I think that Sidney was embezzling for Dagnar. No one's found any of the money he stole yet, not even one shilling. And they wouldn't release him until some semblance of it had been found."

"And what about Worsely?"

"I am not sure, but I think that he was hired by Dagnar, or someone connected to him, to murder Sidney. Petticoats don't strike me as a valuable asset to a man."

Basil smiled at the comment for a moment, but then his expression turned grave. "Miss Lyon, how much do you know about Geoffrey Dagnar?"

"Nothing, except what Sidney told me."

"And what did he tell you?"

"He told me that he would be able to go free, with the 6 months' hard labour he's already done, if Geoff Dagnar, would give even 50 pounds. Then he looked panicked, swore at me, and the guards ended the meeting and escorted me out."

"And you're just surmising that Dagnar had him killed?"

"Perhaps not directly, but name-dropping is a pretty dangerous thing to do in the criminal world. It could have been an associate. I tried looking Dagnar up in the Yard files, but Vole won't let me near them. He seems to think that I'll use them to help Professor Ratigan and Mr. Dagnar talk business over tea together."

"He has a right to think so!" the young woman burst out.

Lyon and Basil shot their heads in her direction.

"You think you can come here and get information about a criminal after you interviewed the most infamous man in society today?" the woman persisted, her voice raising itself an octave.

"Meg-" Basil began.

"You want people," she continued, "to trust you after interviewing a cold-blooded, evil murderer and sower of discord, a man who has killed more innocents than you probably know, a man who you would not help the police track down after you interviewed him, not once, but several times? You could have saved us, and you didn't! And now you want help with finding another criminal?"

"Meg!" Basil said sternly.

"Why do you keep coming back here? To use Basil to help Ratigan?"

Lyon stood up. "Miss Sarentis, why would I help Professor Ratigan?"

"You didn't help the police to find him!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, and they have begged me to. So have many other people—the families of victims of Ratigan's wrath, government officials, the police, even little children. But I am a journalist, not a policeman. I requested several interviews with Professor Ratigan; he consented. Each time my photographer and I were escorted, blindfolded, to an unknown location, and we conducted the interview. The descriptions of the location are enough from the photographs that were taken. I cannot give you any more information than you yourself saw in the photos and read in the articles."

Meg tossed her head in disgust. "I don't believe it."

"I understand that Professor Ratigan has attacked you physically and emotionally, Miss Sarentis. I am sympathetic to your pain; I would not wish what he has done to you upon my worst enemy. But you should also know, even better than I, how brilliant Professor Ratigan is, and how he would ensure that an interview would not incriminate him. I am not brilliant, Miss Sarentis; I cannot guess where I was when I conducted the interviews. I can tell you how I contact Professor Ratigan- each time I've wanted an interview I've advertised in the newspapers, he has replied with a simple yes or no, and he's personally sent me the instructions to follow."

Meg glared at Lyon. The journalist turned to Basil.

"Will you share any information with a former troublemaker, Mr. Basil?"

Basil resolutely shook his head. "Dagnar is none of your business, Miss Lyon. I would advise you to stay clear of him."

"I surmised as much. Well, I have tried this source. I shall try another. Have a good day Mr. Basil, Miss Sarentis." She turned to go.

"Renée," Basil said quickly. Lyon turned around. He coughed. "I am sincere in my advice. Dagnar is dangerous. Some claim that he is as dangerous as Ratigan, if not more so."

"Then why have we not heard of him before?"

"A crime needs to be traced to him first."

After that brief talk with Basil Lyon tried her last and probably most reliable source—James Ratigan.

She smiled as she thought of that meeting. He had ushered her into his study, and they had talked for a good while about nothing in particular. Then she had presented her case to him.

He had chewed on the end of his empty cigarette holder and frowned. "Dagnar? You want to find information on Dagnar?"

"Yes, James. Is that going to be a problem?"

Ratigan tossed the cigarette holder aside and shook his head. "Not if you like impossibilities."

"I'm ready for a challenge," Lyon said with a mischievous grin.

"Hah! Some challenge for you, giving the information to Gerard for him to process."

"I like abusing my power here."

"That you do…" Ratigan trailed off, looking down at some papers on his desk.

"Will the information be hard to obtain? Because if it will, I can always-"

"You came here because you tried everything else within your power first. I know you well enough to have figured out that I'm your last resort. And you don't want to drop the subject of your supposed article now, do you?"

"No, I don't want to."

Ratigan leaned over and took one of her small hands between his two large ones. "My dear, listen to me. I normally wouldn't question why you want to write an article about Dagnar, but I feel that, as your… friend, it is my responsibility to warn you. This man is dangerous. He concerns me in a way that Basil never could because he has no restraints. Alas, if my marvelous plan for the Queen's Diamond Jubilee had not failed, he would not be a threat right now."

Lyon gave him a confused look. "What do you mean by that?"

Ratigan chuckled darkly. "Surprisingly enough, my plan of absolute power would have also rid England of some real and still present evils. I knew what I was doing when I made Flaversham build that robot Queen, and I knew that Dagnar would be the first person I would have to contend with." He paused. "After Basil, of course."

"Does Basil know this?"

He released her hand and leaned back in his chair. "It is difficult to say. If he hasn't, then the old boy isn't as intelligent as even I've ever admitted him to be."

"And the Yard?"

"Oh, they know. Or, at least, they should have guessed. They should have more information on Dagnar than Basil has."

Lyon raised an eyebrow. "You're joking."

Ratigan gave a sincere laugh. "They're the ones hiding all the information. Any public record of his has been destroyed. Basil, meanwhile, has to obtain his information through mostly unlawful means. It's a tricky business for him, given he's supposed to uphold the law."

Lyon sighed. "Poor Basil."

Ratigan rolled his eyes. "'Oh yes, poor Basil!'" he said in a high-pitched, mocking voice.

She folded her arms and shot him an annoyed glare. "He pities you enough to leave me alone when it comes to you."

"No my dear, he pities _you_. To him, and to Meg I'm still a black-hearted scoundrel shot should die like a dog." He paused for a moment, and then his face fell. His shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked haggard and worn.

"James, are you all right?"

Ratigan shrugged. "I was just thinking…" He stopped, and looked warily at her. Then: "Let me give you an idea of how dangerous Dagnar is. Do you remember the Stratton massacre you upbraided me for two years ago? The one I denied being involved with?"

Lyon frowned. "Yes."

"I was telling the truth. Dagnar was the real perpetrator. His agents committed the crime, for reasons unknown, and then planted evidence against some of my own men. My two best men at the time, Sirius and Caldwell, were tried and executed for it."

"Do the others know of Dagnar?"

"Of course. Any time my boys run into a Dagnar man, someone gets killed. There's been a war in London's underworld for years now that the Yard and even Basil are not aware of."

The journalist's eyes grew wide. "Really?"

"You don't know how much trouble this ongoing war has been for my numbers. I'm short on men. This year alone I've lost four men because of Dagnar. My resources are limited. I have no information to say that the skirmishes our agents get into are demoralizing his men as much as they are mine. But I continue to tell those blockheads that we're winning. Besides, when a relative or a friend gets killed, they want revenge."

"Wheh…when did this war start?" she asked.

Ratigan's left hand reached out for the discarded cigarette holder. He rolled it across the table, catching it right in front of him. "It's been on and off since the end of '94, I think. But it didn't get serious until about '99, when he sensed I was coming back from the Diamond Jubilee disaster."

"I never knew," she said quietly.

The Napoleon of Crime took out a cigarette and lit it. "Do you still want information on Dagnar? I warn you, you'll have the Yard, the governments of three countries, Basil, and even Dagnar himself on your back if you publish anything incriminating."

Lyon had agreed. And now she was sitting with a drawing of a man in front of her who had murdered the inmates of the Stratton orphanage. What else had this man done?

Lyon looked through train records, lists of goods, uses of the name in relation to regular travel patterns, tabs in pubs and stores.

She shivered, and wrapped her coat more tightly around her. The garret was cold, especially in the winter. It penetrated her very bones.

Lyon's mind wandered to the cold sewers where a criminal mastermind resided, kept company by vulgar men and a distraught girl…

* * *

Meg: I actually have completed a lot of research on the Victorian Era since I started college, thanks to my boyfriend's love of books. "Ladybird" is a Victorian slang term for a prostitute, while an "abbess" is a female brothel keeper, also known as a 'madame." As you may have guessed, a brothel was sometimes called an "abbey."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

* * *

Meg: First of all, thank you very much for the lovely reviews! It's so nice to discover both old and new faces reading my work!

Second, I am sorry in the delayed update. I am taking so many writing-intensive classes that I tend to write about an average of three papers a weekend. This weekend, it was only one paper, but it had to be 15 pages long.

I should have mentioned this last chapter, but the title of the story is based on Breaking Benjamin's song "Dance with the Devil" from their CD _Phobia_. This song is rather important to the plot, which significance I will not explain until the end of the story. All you need to know now is that it's a rock waltz; it's based on 3/4 time, which fits the steps one uses in a waltz. So, in a circular-argument way, waltzing may be important to the idea behind the story. Ooooh... I love being stupidly mysterious. When I tell you guys at the end what the connection is, you'll all probably call me an idiot for getting you excited over nothing.

Another strong influence on this story was _The Black Parade_ CD by My Chemical Romance. The five guys with Lydia and Lisa in the first scene are based on the members of that band and the personas they took on that particular CD. That first scene was strongly based on the song "Mama," which also somewhat explains Lisa's presence.

So if you want to listen to the abovementioned songs, go for it!

By the way, I am having so much fun writing about the London underworld's daily operation as if it was a legitimate business. Evil rocks!

* * *

Dark and damp are the sewers. Not a healthy place for one with poor health. No sunshine to light of the dank corners of London's underworld. Few venture down there of their own free will.

A lingering disease is in the air, a sort of sickness. One feels it at the entrance to the underworld, a chill down the spine that warns would-be trespassers to stay away. Those constantly subjected to this poisoned atmosphere feel the chill sink into their very marrow. No man-made heat can shake it off; only the power of the sun, rare in the inclement weather and polluted atmosphere of London, can dispel it.

As the days and weeks pass the chill creeps through the veins, finally settling into the heart. The soul becomes dormant. The moving, breathing body is dead.

* * *

At that moment Ratigan sat at his desk, scribbling on a piece of paper. The albino and Harry stood before him.

"The price of tobacco is going down," he muttered. "Increase interceptions of tobacco shipments. We'll keep them here; if our efforts don't make the prices go up, then the economy eventually will, and we'll put them back on the market. Also, the quality of the bread at meals is horrible. Fanny claims it's the flour, so look for some that isn't the consistency of sand… I want to send two of the green boys to Paris. Write Edouards and let him know."

"Which ones?" Gerard asked.

"Kelley… and that other one, that Ferris boy. They're too uncertain about their new occupations for their own good. Some time in a foreign land, where they have to depend on more seasoned fellows to take care of them, should convince them otherwise… Harry, give Allan a friendly warning about that whore he keeps bringing down here. I don't trust girlfriends, let alone whores. If he resists, then have Gerald talk to him about the fate of one Scarlet Jones… Gerard, give this letter to Mayhew to deliver to Nickels… oh, we need more stamps. Also, contact von Eichmann. He's several months behind on payment of Parker's salary." Ratigan stopped writing, staring at his paper for a moment. Then he raised his eyes to Gerard. "And why is Lisa still here?"

The albino shrugged.

"Tell Fanny I want to talk to her. I will not house her in-laws while-"

Ratigan abruptly stopped and tilted his head towards the two men. He waited for a few moments, the light ring of old sewer pipes filling the silence.

"COME IN!" he roared.

A few moments later the door behind the two men cracked opened, and Lydia poked her forehead and eyes through the crack, as if she knew her presence was unwanted.

"What do you want?" Ratigan snapped.

"Is this a bad time?" she said in an almost inaudible voice. "I could come back later, when you're not busy-"

"Why don't you knock and talk louder next time?" he barked.

She stopped talking, her face flushing over. She began to retreat.

"Get back in here!"

She reentered the room, shutting the door behind her. Then she slowly approached his desk.

Ratigan resumed writing. "Gerard, drop Fanny some useful hints about that intolerable leech, and how this isn't some sort of hotel for women who don't have any other ambitions in life. Lisa has a little money; I'll start charging her rent if she doesn't make herself useful or get out soon. Harry, any problems with shipments this month?"

"The Yardies 'ave been poking their noses around our East India domain. There're rumours about Basil getting involved soon."

"At least you're somewhat perceptive. I've been informed about Basil's involvement. Cease operations there for at least a fortnight. We'll talk about it then. Gerard, do something about that hole in the wall in the meeting room, and remind the men how the Boss feels about reckless shooting in his domain. Take away the culprits' weapons for two weeks, and warn them of what will happen the next time. And tell Barrie to stop by tomorrow around noon and to give a better report this time, or else I will put his sorry ass on the next Darby Road excursion!"

Gerard nodded.

"You may leave," Ratigan said with a wave of his hand.

As Gerard departed, he leaned over to Lydia and said, "You wouldn't be a very good Ladybird in body, but a pretty face can sometimes make up for that."

The girl stared at the floor.

Gerard passed, shutting the door behind him.

Ratigan stood up. "What do you want?"

The girl looked timidly up at him. "If you please, sir, I'd… I'd like my letter."

The rat snorted. "Is that all you can think about?"

She shook her head. "No. But he promised to write. It's been several months, sir. I was afraid that he was dead."

Ratigan folded his arms and looked down at her. "By all means he shouldn't even be alive."

Lydia nodded vigorously. "Yes, and I thank the Lord every day for your graciousness-"

"There is no God down here."

Lydia clasped her hands and averted her eyes to the floor again.

Ratigan reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. He examined it in his hand. "I would like to respond to this letter."

A wave of alarm passed across Lydia's face. "I… I thought that he was to get no letters-"

"No letters from you. I am allowed to respond. I have many friends in German Africa. It will get to him in no time."

Ratigan watched with amusement as Lydia fought to control her words. "What will you say… if you don't mind my asking?"

"I will tell him exactly how worthless of an acquisition you are."

The first tear fell from her eyes. He smirked.

"I refuse to let others give in to disillusions, Lydia. You are worthless. You cannot do anything useful. You cannot cook, your cleaning abilities are mediocre, you don't know how to do any laundry, you write silly little stories all day long or use my personal study as a lending library, and you have no solid plans for your future. You cannot be responsible to make your own decisions, and it shows by the type of life you were living before you fell into my hands."

She gripped her hands but said nothing.

Ratigan shook his head "I don't see why that man keeps you around, Lydia. He's certainly getting nothing out of the deal."

She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then shut it again.

"What did you want to say just now?" the professor asked.

She shrugged. "Nothing."

"I think I can guess. You were about to remind me of your bargain to get him out of my cells, weren't you?" He waited for a response. She would not look up at him. "Yes, that was it. You see Lydia, that bargain did nothing. It didn't help anyone, and it gave him something else to concern himself with—you."

"If I had known it would have caused him more problems-"

"Don't start trying to pity yourself. You're sensitive and weak, a sniveling little brat who doesn't deserve what she's been given. It's about time you learned what little character you have!"

"I have been learning. I keep learning because of you!" she yelled.

Ratigan smirked. "Temper, temper. So dramatic. So violent. Oh yes," he said, meeting her doubtful look with a smirk. "Your temper has the ability to turn violent. You rarely take it out on others, I suppose. The violence in an inner one. But when it's out-" he snapped his fingers. "Something is destroyed."

Lydia wanted to question his strange statements, but the urge to get out of his presence as quickly as possible was too strong for her to bear his presence any longer. She bowed her head, murmured some unintelligible words in way of a farewell, and turned to leave the room.

"Girl!" Ratigan barked.

She stopped, her back to the professor.

"I don't ever want to see a repeat of the scene you caused in the study this afternoon. Understood?"

"Yes'r," she growled before stomping out of the room.

* * *

_Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. BANG BANG BANG!_

"Would someone open up that confounded door!" Basil said, holding an old heel suspended over a bluish solution in a bubbling beaker.

"It's probably one of your customers," I said dryly as I headed toward the door. Mrs. Judson beat me to it, and opened it up.

"Hello Mrs. Judson. Meg!" Isabelle Fremly flew past her and into my arms, giving me a warm hug.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fremly," Mrs. Judson said.

"Soon to be Mrs. Dawson!" she exclaimed, sticking out her left hand, displaying a gold band on her ring finger. "Last Sunday! Has David told you?"

"My word. Dr. Dawson hasn't said a thing!" Mrs. Judson beamed. "Did you know of this, Mr. Basil?"

Basil grunted, dropping the heel into the solution. It hissed and bubbled up, and then settled down.

"He knew," I whispered to Mrs. Judson. "We're still not sure how he's taking it. He didn't say a thing when Dawson broke the news."

"Oh," she mouthed. Then, turning to Isabelle, she said, "If you're here to see the doctor, I'm afraid he's seeing a patient."

"That's all right," she said, taking off her gloves and hat. "I'm mainly here to see Mrs. Havers here. Meg, do you know what day it is?"

"Erm… Thursday."

"No!" Isabelle exclaimed, removing her fur cape. "Well, yes, but that's not the right answer."

"The day after Wednesday?"

"Now you're just teasing me."

"Yes, because I can't abide guessing games. Why are you so excited?"

Isabelle went to the front door. "Because it is exactly two years to the day since you became widowed."

"Oh… it is." I glanced at Basil, and then back at Isabelle. "I knew it was coming up, because I went into partial mourning a few months ago. You came all the way here to tell me that?"

"No." Isabelle opened the door and poked her head out. "You can come in now."

Rahle came in, wearing a shabby suit of a hideous dark green color and a black tie, carrying three white boxes under one arm. « Bonjour Monsieur Basil, Madame Judson, Mademoiselle, bonjour, » Rahle grumbled.

"You've been wearing nothing but black, grey and white for the past two years, and I daresay that all of your clothes are going out of fashion. So I hired Rahle here to make you some new dresses to celebrate your freedom from the widow's burden."

"Oh, Isabelle!" I squealed, throwing my arms around her.

Rahle cleared his throat and held out the boxes. « Pardonnez-moi, mais je suis un homme très occupé ! »

"Sorry Rahle." Then, to me, Isabelle murmured, "He's annoyed that I made him wear a suit."

I took the boxes from the Frenchman. « Merci beaucoup, Rahle. »

« Pas de quoi, » he growled.

"Let's try them on!" Isabelle said, taking my arm and pulling me up the stairs. Mrs. Judson followed at Isabelle's insistence.

Five minutes later I stood in front of the full length mirror in my small room, staring at the pale, mahogany-haired girl in the blue cotton dress in the reflection. Isabelle and Mrs. Judson sat on my bed, next to five new colored dresses. "Amazing…" I breathed. "I look so much younger."

Isabelle let out a squeal in delight. Mrs. Judson gave a small frown.

"You look lovely, Megana," she said quietly. "But I thought two years after the death of a husband was the start of the half-mourning period. And…" she ran her hands over the dresses, "…I see crimson, and dark green, and auburn, but lilac and grey seem to be much more… appropriate."

I blushed, but replied in a small voice, "I already completed the half-mourning period, Mrs. Judson. I have a lilac dress. You've seen me wear it."

"When Mr. Judson died, I began half-mourning exactly two years after his death," the landlady said, folding her arms across her chest.

"When did Mr. Judson pass away?" Isabelle asked.

"Oh… nearly 20 years ago now. I followed the rules for mourning the entire time."

Isabelle patted her arm, but I could see the spark in her eye. "Mrs. Judson, times have changed. Widows don't mourn nearly as long as they used to."

Mrs. Judson gave her a long, hard look. "If, heaven forbid, Dr. Dawson… _passes,_ before you do, will you treat his memory in such a callous manner?"

"No…" Isabelle said cautiously. "But I know that David would not want me to be dressed in hideous black trappings for two full years!"

Mrs. Judson stood up. "Well, I don't think it's proper. Meg, you do look lovely, but be careful. People are already starting to talk." With that she left the room.

I turned to Isabelle, who looked like she was inwardly fuming. "Why that woman!" she exclaimed. "What right did she have to-"

"Please stop!" I said. "She's just ashamed. It's common knowledge that Basil has been courting me, and it has scandalized the neighborhood because I wasn't out of my mourning period when it happened. Mrs. Judson has received the brunt of the criticism, because as landlady she is considered to be my chaperone."

"Oh... I see. Well, it is a bit odd that you started courting during your widowhood. But surely just having Basil here is scandalous enough for Mrs. Judson!"

"Are you suggesting that Basil is a public embarrassment?" I giggled.

"Don't you?" Isabelle replied with a smile. "This is the man who walked in on Lady Clapman in her bath to arrest her!"

I blushed. "That was not one of his finer moments. But he caught his… erm… lady, right?"

Isabelle shook her head. "That man is impossible."

"I still love him," I said lightly, talking a look in the mirror once again. The relief I felt from the mourning clothes felt so wrong. "Did I mourn Josh for long enough?"

My question was followed by several moments of silence. Finally Isabelle asked, "Do you miss him?"

"I don't know." I stopped, remembering the last moments of Josh's life, swords clanging as he faced off with the Napoleon of Crime on our wedding night. "Yes. I do miss him. He was sweet, charming, honest. And brave. He fought Ratigan to protect me."

I stopped. A frightening thought crossed my mind: it seemed like the only thing we had had in common was a mutual hatred of Ratigan.

And what about Basil? Was I attracted to him too because of our mutual hatred of Ratigan?

Cold sweat began to work its way over me. I slowly started to unbutton the dress.

"Meg!" Isabelle jumped to her feet. 'What are you doing?"

"I… I can't do this!" I exclaimed. "I cheated Josh. I didn't do this right. I failed him. I failed him! How could I do this to him? I didn't wait long enough- not to end my mourning period, not to court Basil. I'm only with Basil because of Professor Ratigan! That villain is scaring me into relationships!"

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, Meg!" Isabelle said, grabbing my shoulders before I could slip the sleeves off of them. "Why are you thinking like this? Because of what Mrs. Judson said?"

"Well… yes and no. Isabelle, I've been living in this house, working with Basil ever since Josh died."

"For protection!"

"Or was it selfishness? Dishonor? Infidelity to Josh's memory? Look what has happened. Basil has replaced him!"

"No, no, no! Basil will _never_ replace Josh. He isn't sweet or honest!"

I shot her a quizzical look. "Do you really think that?"

She opened her mouth, paused, and shut it again. She chuckled nervously and shook her head. "No. I was just trying to say that Josh, from what you have told me, is nothing like Basil."

"I know. And that's what makes me fear that I am only with Basil because of Ratigan!"

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, hands still on my shoulders, staring directly into my eyes.

My throat tightened and I choked back the urge to cry. I nodded.

"Maybe you need time away from Basil, then," she suggested in a low voice.

I studied her expression. The normally grinning face, the bright spark in her eyes, had vanished.

"I… I couldn't. Not now. He's taking the news of Dr. Dawson moving out so poorly. How could I leave him now?"

Isabelle laughed. "Now is the perfect time. David and I aren't getting married for several months! He'll still be here. If you did something in the meantime, to separate yourself from Baker Street for awhile, you may figure out what your true feelings are for being with Basil."

She slowly released me from her grasp, and the dress fell to my feet. I stared at the blue material. "Basil would never agree to me leaving Baker Street. It's too dangerous with Ratigan still at large."

"Do you think that?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to be frightened into hiding by Ratigan all your life?"

"No."

"Then you've got to get out there! Basil may not always be there for you, and then what will you do?"

I bit my lower lip. I had not seen Ratigan in over one year. He had not made good on his promise to harm Basil if I ever expressed any emotions for him.

I bent down and gathered up the dress. I slipped it on and slowly began to work the buttons back on.

"What did you have in mind?"

* * *

Meg: Information on Victorian widowhood and proper periods of mourning for deceased relatives, as well as anything related to the furniture and different rooms and their functions in a Victorian home, can be found in Judith Flanders' book _Inside the Victorian Home: A Portrait of Domestic Life in Victorian England._ In a nutshell, the women were expected to do the bulk of the mourning for anyone, even for a husband's deceased mother or father.

Also, if I had to redo the entire Meg Sarentis series, I'd get rid of Josh's character entirely; he's more of a roadblock to me now. The exchange between Isabelle and Meg took me forever to figure out because of him. Although I am pretty satisfied with the direction the conversation took- the work I did on this chapter will actually simplify things later on and make me seem like less of a cynic. Oh joy!

To erosgirl: To clear up the confusion about which of my characters are in this story and where they can be found, reread the epilogue of "Every Rose Has a Thorn." The first sentence of that chapter will reveal Rose's role in this story. I will also be loyal to the storyline set up in that epilogue if you want any spoilers.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

* * *

Meg: Gracie Gru, I am going to share a secret with you: I did most of the research on the Victorian Era on my own time. My college teaches more about the nineteenth century American industrial eras. Any other type of history is pretty much downplayed. If you want, I can give the titles of some excellent books on the Victorian Age, especially ones on the criminal underworld in not only London, but Nottingham as well.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

I got up early the next morning, hoping to speak to Basil in private before breakfast. Basil was not in the study when I descended the stairs. I considered knocking on his bedroom door, but did not hear any noise from within. I decided to try the dining room. When I entered the dining room, however, I ran right into Basil as he was coming out, hitting his chin with my forehead.

"Ow!" I yelped at the same time he grunted, "Uhn!" We jumped back from each other and rubbed our bruises.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I wasn't looking."

"No, it's quite all…" he trailed off. I looked up at him. His eyes trailed from top of my new auburn dress to the bottom.

My face grew red. "Is something wrong?"

"Uh... what? Uh, no. Yes! No, I…" he stopped, and cleared his throat. He placed his hands on my shoulders, and smiled gently at me. "Mourning clothes did not do justice to your beauty, my dear."

I smiled back, and gave him a hug. "I tried to show you last night, but you vanished soon after Isabelle arrived. What happened?"

"I'll explain. Sit down, at the table, I'll be back!" he said, rushing off.

I looked into the doorway. Dawson was already at the table, spreading jam on his toast. "Good morning, Meg."

"What's he up to?" I asked, sitting across from the doctor.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Dawson said with a shrug.

I poured myself some tea and added two spoons of sugar. Basil came back into the room as I placed some grilled fish on my plate.

"Take a look at this," he said, tossing Dawson an envelope.

I got up and moved around behind the doctor, reading over his shoulder:

_8 August _

_Dearest Lydia,_

_I apologize for the delay in writing. I know I promised to write every day, but I wasn't allowed any pen or paper on the voyage. I have finally obtained some writing materials today from a marketplace here in Cape Town. It is a clean, European-style town, and almost feels like home, except everyone speaks a mix of Dutch, English, or some native language. I'd much rather be in London with you._

_I have been enlisted with a German infantry company. I cannot tell you the name or where we will be fighting; the commander has been informed as to what to do with me, so I receive any direct orders from him now. My comrades-in-arms only speak German; I forget most of the German I learned in school, so conversing with them is impossible. They aren't a very friendly bunch, and they don't seem too fond of my presence. We will be out in the African bush tomorrow morning. I have only been here for two days and I'll already be facing the natives. I do not want to be out there, but only because it will take me further away from you. _

_I hope everything is going well with you, and that you are treated well. You are always in my thoughts. Just the thought of your smiling face, your beautiful eyes, your soft hair on my arms, your perfect nose, and your lovely arms wrapped around me makes me wonder how I am so lucky to have such an immaculate creature love me so well. I impatiently await the day when I can come back to you and hold you in my arms once again. I did the calculations; I am paid five bob a day; if all goes well, I should have the ₤50 in about six and a half months. I hope to make it back to you in less than eight months. _

_I do not know when I will have another opportunity to write, but I will try to write to you as soon as I can. I love you so much._

_Yours always,_

_Shaun_

Dr. Dawson and I had to reread the letter several times because the scratchy penmanship of the writer was so hard to decipher. Dawson finally set down the letter and exchanged a confused glance with me, at a loss for words.

"Basil," he began cautiously, "It's a… a love… letter."

"Not just any love letter!" Basil said, jumping in. "This particular letter was found on a Seven Plagues ship that was captured by the Royal Navy several weeks ago."

"Are you suggesting that this letter-writer is involved with the Seven Plagues?"

"Possibly."

"But Basil," Dawson continued patiently, "soldiers often give their letters to ships going back to their homelands."

"Maybe some phrases in the letter are code for something," I murmured. "'_₤50_' could mean some sort of price, like maybe _₤50,000 _or some higher amount."

Basil nodded. "If the writer is really an agent of the Seven Plagues, then we may have a plan right in front of our eyes," he said, his eyes flashing in excitement. "Some aspects of the letter, such as the two days in Cape Town, may be true. Going out into the African bush, however, may be indicative of a visit to a gold or diamond mine, which are big businesses there. The five bob a day could really be five diamonds from the mine, or a certain amount of gold dust, or the estimated price of what they will accumulate at the end of their plan. This plan, as indicated by the letter, will take around six and a half months to complete, and the goods will get to London in about eight months."

"That is, if there is some veracity to what you say," Dawson said. "Indeed, it would be a clever way of disguising such an illegal business transaction. But I don't see any reason to suspect that the sender and the recipient of this letter are Seven Plagues conspirators just because the letter was found on one of their ships."

"Before you doubt my sentimentality, dear doctor, I ought to tell you that last night I received word from a contact at Mouseland Yard. The Royal Navy disabled and captured another Seven Plagues ship yesterday, and brought it to London last night. There were two more letters from 'Shaun' to 'Lydia' on this particular ship, and of the same nature. I don't think it was a coincidence."

"What do these letters say?" I asked.

Basil frowned. "They're in the hands of the military police, although an Inspector Daniels at the Yard managed to briefly get his hands on them enough to skim over the contents. He doesn't remember the details, but he did remember the names of the sender and the recipient."

"Is there any way we can obtain those letters?" said Dawson.

The detective shrugged. "I received this letter last night from Daniels. It's addressed to an Edward Brant of 127 Balaclava Street, Esor, London."

Dawson frowned. "Esor? Balaclava Street?"

"I don't recall anything in England being named after 'Balaclava,'" I said.

"The address doesn't exist!" Dawson exclaimed, as if it had just hit him.

"Correct, dear doctor," Basil said. "The Yard is stuck, which is why Daniels condescended to let me examine the letter myself."

"Where do you think the letter's destination is?" Dawson asked.

"To Ratigan," Basil said with a devious grin. "The address is just a hoax to throw off suspicion. The MPs and Daniels had no idea of the letter's connection to any potential Seven Plagues activity when the first ship was captured. Due to the innocent nature of the letter they sent it on its way through the postal system. It did not reach the destination because of the reason you just stated, Dawson. Then it fell back into Daniels' hands, and he promptly forgot about it until the discovery of the other two letters with the second Seven Plagues ship."

"Where do we start?" Dawson asked.

"At the East India docks," Basil said. "Both ships were headed to those docks before their capture. However, we must go in disguise. My sources tell me that the locals and the criminal underworld are aware of the current interest these docks hold for both Her Majesty's government and the Yard."

"When are we going?" said Dawson.

"This morning." Basil then reached out and gave my hand, which was resting on the table, a reassuring squeeze. "Meg, I do apologize, but I believe it would be wise if you did not come. It will be too suspicious if there are three strangers hanging around the docks."

Normally I would have been angered by being the first person that Basil would have gotten rid of in his undercover investigation. Instead relief washed over me at the opportunity this statement produced. "That's all right," I said softly. "There's actually something I want to speak about with you."

"What is it?"

"Alone?" I asked.

"What for?" said Basil. The doctor, however, took the hint and left the room. I went back to my chair and sat down.

"Well?" Basil asked. He seemed calm, but cautious.

I took a sip of my tea. Setting the cup down on the saucer, I cleared my throat. "Basil," I began, "I've been thinking about my position here. And I think there needs to be a change."

"Are you upset that I asked you to not come to the docks this morning?" he asked.

"Well, you _didn't _ask, you just told me not to come," I said.

He heaved a sigh. "Meg, I did not mean to put it that-"

"That's not a problem!" I interrupted. "I understand. Really, I do. What I am talking about has nothing to do with anything you've done."

"What are you talking about, then?"

"I've been helping out on cases for nearly two years now as your secretary," I said, suddenly feeling nervous. "And…and we're courting now. I… I think I need to find another job."

Basil blinked hard. "I'm sorry, can you repeat what you just said?"

I gulped. "I think I need another job. Away from Baker Street."

He stood up slowly. He folded his arms, opened his mouth, shut his mouth again, and then placed his hands on the table and leaned toward me, until we were nearly face-to-face. "My dear, I am about to ask you a very important question. Will you promise to give me the absolutely true answer to the question?"

"Yes."

"Does this proposition have anything to do with Ratigan?"

My knees felt weak. "What? No!" I said, wondering if he knew the true reason I wanted to get another job.

Basil raised an eyebrow. "The last time you were talking like this was when you were recovering from typhoid. Ratigan blackmailed you to stay away from me. You told me to fire you."

I took a deep breath, relieved that my next response would not be a lie. "Ratigan has not contacted me since last November. He did not blackmail me this time into trying to get a different job. I truly believe that… that we need some time apart."

"Why?" he asked.

"It's just…I love working with you, but I won't always be able to do that. And I think it might be healthy for me to make some interactions of my own. Ever since… since Josh died, I haven't really had any goals that were purely directed away from Ratigan. Even the cases that are not related to Ratigan's crime chain always have me on edge, wondering if there is a connection to him somehow, or if I should be gathering skills that might lead to finding him." I looked up at Basil, but his green eyes only looked understandingly at me, giving me the courage to continue. "It's an all-consuming obsession, and I'm afraid it will hurt our relationship in the future. Getting out, away from Baker Street and these cases may be the answer to making Ratigan less of a controlling factor in my life, and possibly our relationship."

He sat back down, looking a little sad. "I think you're absolutely right."

"Really?"

"Yes. But may I ask a few questions?"

"Of course."

"How long have you felt this way?"

I placed my elbows on the table and rested my head on my hands, trying to think of when these feelings started.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe for several months now. But I think I became more aware of it recently."

He nodded. "So where do you plan to get a job?"

"Isabelle knows a gentleman, a Mr. Albert Jenners, who is looking for help cataloguing his library."

"_Sir Algernon _Jenners?"

"I think so. Wait, yes! He's a descendant of the Restoration politician Algernon Sidney, I think. At least that's what Isabelle said."

"She's completely wrong. Jenners is a distant, distant cousin to the king. He's twenty-seventh in line to the throne."

"Really?" I asked.

Basil nodded again, but he looked annoyed.

"Now how did she get that mixed up?" I pondered aloud. "Maybe the similarities of the first name?"

"How does Isabelle know Jenners?" he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"Mr. Jenners knows Isabelle's father. They've met at military socials."

"And _she _thought it'd be a good idea for you to work with Jenners?"

I sensed that Basil did not like Jenners. "Yes. Why? Don't you think it's a good idea?"

"Jenners is an ambitious man with a superiority complex. He abhors anyone who he thinks is of lesser intelligence or rank than him, which cancels out any civil social interactions with probably 80 percent of the population of London. He seems to especially despise the company of women. I doubt you'll even get a personal interview with him."

I frowned. "But Isabelle said that he was one of the most charming men she ever met."

"I've heard that about him. I've only talked to the fellow in passing myself, and he was extremely cordial. But he appears to have a different personality around women. He's not a patient or understanding man, and I have heard stories of him being downright rude to certain people."

I slumped down in my chair and groaned. "Isabelle was going to take me over there this afternoon. I suppose I should just cancel now."

Basil shrugged. "I wouldn't do that. If he does condescend to speak with you, it might be good practice for any future interviews with potential employers."

"This is going to be much harder than I thought," I murmured.

"Yes, it will. We also have to talk about safety," he said. "Ratigan is still at large. With you looking for a job, and me on this case, he may use the opportunity to get his hands on you."

I sighed. "I know…"

* * *

"Let me get this straight," Ratigan said, leaning against the mantle in his study. "Miss Sarentis is leaving her day job with Basil, and that pipsqueak fully supports the idea?"

A mouse with tattered ears and grimy clothing who looked like he had been living outside for weeks nodded vigorously from his seat in a tall armchair. "Yes, sir."

"And her only protection against attack is a switchblade?"

The mouse nodded. "Basil wanted to go with her to the job, but she didn't take to that. They had a row 'bout it. He then wanted her to take a gun, but she don't want to do that either, least 'til she gets a job and is situated."

Ratigan shook his head in amused disbelief. "Well, I'll be damned. She finally had it with that detective." He started to laugh.

There was a loud banging on the door. Ratigan caught his breath and yelled, "Who is it?"

"Lydia, sir."

He rolled his eyes. "Wait for a moment." Turning to the mouse on his armchair, he said, "Keep your eye on Miss Sarentis. Let me know if she manages to get a job, and what her schedule is like if she does."

The mouse got up to leave.

"Oh, and Barrie," Ratigan added, "much better work this time. Keep this up, and I won't put you on Darby Road ever again."

Barrie grinned. "Thankee, sir," he said.

"Let Lydia in on your way out," Ratigan said. "And tell Gerard, Mikey and Frank that I want to see them as well."

Lydia slipped in as Barrie left.

"You're not getting your letter," Ratigan snapped, pouring himself a drink from a decanter as she approached his desk.

"I didn't come about that, sir. I came because I wanted to know how I could be useful."

The professor turned toward her. "Useful?"

"Yes. I've been thinking about what you… you said to me last evening. I don't want to be a charity case anymore."

He rubbed his eyes with his right thumb and index finger. "Why is everyone looking for a job now?" he muttered under his breath. Then, to Lydia: "What exactly do you want?"

"Well… anything, really. Anything I could do to help out."

"Help out with what?" Ratigan growled. "I need men to pick pockets, or fence goods. I need men for the Darby Road excursions."

Lydia shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't do that. Is there anything around here?" she whimpered.

"Do you know shorthand?"

"No."

"Take care of account books?"

"I'm not exactly good at arithmetic."

"Then what can you do? You can't cook. Fanny takes care of the cleaning and laundry."

"I help her with that-"

"Then why the hell are you asking me for a job?" Ratigan barked.

"Because that doesn't seem like enough to you," the girl whispered.

There was another knock on the door.

"Come in," the professor said, exasperated.

The albino entered, accompanied by two of the clones.

"Excellent," Ratigan said, his tone changing. "Boys, I want to discuss Mr. Basil of Baker Street with you. But first, Lydia here wants a job. Do you boys think you can help her find one?"

Gerard's lips turned upward into a smile, while the other two started to smirk.

"Yeah," Frank said. "She could do a liddle work for us right 'twixt her thighs!"

All the men roared in laughter. Lydia's face grew red, but she folded her arms and turned her back on them, muttering angrily to herself.

"Yeah Boss!" Mikey chimed in between laughs. "It'd be a real job benefit to attract new recruits!"

"She had plenty of training with Parker, I bet," Frank added.

Ratigan pulled out a handkerchief and wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "There you go, girl. You could have a real calling here as a Ladybird."

"I am worth much more than that," she protested.

"Hah!" Ratigan spat. "If you were worth more than that your parents wouldn't have disowned you. You'd be married by now. You certainly wouldn't be here if you had any personal value."

"Give poor Lydia a break," Gerard said. He put his arm around her and steered her until she faced the others. She put her head down. "She doesn't know any better."

Lydia pushed away from him. "I'm sorry I even asked," she whispered sharply as she headed toward the door.

"Come back if you change your mind!" Frank called out.

She slammed the door behind her.

"Now, gentlemen," Ratigan said. "Barrie tells me that Basil of Baker Street is now receiving Parker's letters to that silly girl. The fool thinks the letters are some sort of plot. If his delusional mind continues in this strand, he might accidentally fall upon something he shouldn't have. Mikey, I need you to write another 'love' letter to that girl."

"Why?" the thug asked.

"You're the only one who can forge his handwriting. I'll give you the current letter I have from him; you can copy from that one."

"Where will the letters go, Boss?" Gerard asked. "They can't be sent to Mayhew anymore."

"Perhaps they can," Ratigan said. "Listen closely now. Nothing can go wrong, not when everything else is falling so perfectly into place…"

* * *

Meg: It never ceases to amaze me how easy creative writing is compared to any other sort of writing. Even when I don't have an idea entirely worked out, I always seem to get inspired by some idea that makes things connect in the end. One of my professors insists that my 15 page paper on environmentalism is not very cohesive, while I think that this story is fairly well-connected.

I actually spent a good portion of the last 24 hours writing most of this chapter, when I probably should have been working on two other papers. I'll get the papers done over Thanksgiving break instead, I suppose. I also apologize for Lydia running out of the room in every scene that she is in. She's become a very troublesome character in that way. Hopefully she won't do it again.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

* * *

Meg: I am so proud of myself for getting another chapter out so quickly. I promised myself yesterday to work on my two papers after I posted that last chapter, but I must have been on a writing high, because I wrote the entire first part of this chapter then. Today I wrote the last two parts when I was in the library, where I was trying to get some college-related work done.

At least readers will be rewarded for my slacking off.

* * *

Lyon sat on the cold, damp ground, using a headstone as a backrest, as she wrote in a little maroon pocketbook.

She snapped her head up at the sound of feet crunching on dead leaves. A rugged sailor deliberately approached her in a faltering limp, his blue cap covering his eyes.

She got to her feet and instinctively thrust her hand into her pocket, lightly gripping the Lancaster pistol that was tucked away in there. The pocketbook was still open, so she pretended to read from it while she kept an eye on the man. He stopped when he was a few feet away.

"Missy!" he growled.

She looked up from the book. "Good afternoon, sir."

"Lookin' for Spitalfields rookery. Know ye of the place?"

Lyon nodded. "It's off Dorset Street."

"Can ye point me roight?"

"You go out the east gate there," she said, pointing to a gate to her right, "and head down that road, Little Paternoster Row, and then turn-"

Too late she caught the man's swift approach out of the corner of her eye. He grabbed her gun hand and twisted it behind her until she was forced to drop the gun. He pressed a razor to her throat and grunted in her ear, "Too easy."

Beads of sweat broke out on Lyon's forehead. "My bag is there, behind that tombstone," she said calmly. "Take it, and I won't go to the police."

"Good, because I can't afford to spend anytime in jail," the sailor said, his voice changing as he released her.

Lyon turned toward the man, who pulled off his cap and a few very well-placed whiskers and patches of fur. "MR. BASIL!" she exclaimed angrily. "What is the meaning of this?"

Basil chuckled. "I'm sorry, Renée, it was meant to be a joke. I just got carried away."

Her legs felt like jelly from the fright of the ordeal. She sank down onto the grass, saying, "If that's your idea of a joke, then I wonder what you consider to be a danger. No wonder your girlfriend is so sour all the time, if you play jokes like that on her."

"You were about to shoot me, though. You would have gotten anyone else who did not know that you had a pistol in your pocket. Next time don't take your eyes off the suspicious person."

"Gee, thanks," she said sarcastically. "What are you doing here dressed like that?"

Basil sat next to a tombstone across from Lyon. "I was at the East India docks anyway, and I thought to check if you were here."

"I thought you might come by today. The servant girl at my lodgings said that you were by yesterday," she said. "You have something for me, don't you?"

The detective pulled out a piece of paper. "I have been in contact with a Pinkerton detective in the States for several years now. I received a letter from him yesterday. He found the location of your family."

Lyon felt like Basil had punched her in the stomach. "In the States?"

"Yes. There is an Allan McGeady, living with his 26-year-old daughter Francis and his 17-year-old daughter Jessica, in a farmhouse about 6 miles away from St. Anthony, in Minnesota. She's attending a teaching school next fall. Your sister Gwen is married and living in Saint Paul with her husband, who works with a railroad company."

Lyon pressed her back into the tombstone behind her. "Gwen's married?"

"Yes."

"To whom?"

"The man's name is Justin Bryan. He's a native of the St. Anthony area. She met him when they moved there in the spring of '97."

"While I was here, trying to kill the queen," she murmured. She closed her eyes. "Why did you take it upon yourself to look for them?"

"I asked my Pinkerton man, Greene, to look for them back in '97, after the Diamond Jubilee, just in case I ran into you again. It was an attempt to dissuade you from crime. You beat me to it by leaving of your own accord. I forgot about it until now."

"You didn't forget," Lyon said with a smirk. "You don't forget anything."

"All right, you have me there," Basil admitted. "I didn't forget; I only thought that you may be able to act on the information that you could not discover for yourself six years ago."

Lyon opened her eyes. She turned around and stared at the gravestone behind her. "Six years, huh? So they've been living there for six years. A little American farming town?"

Basil nodded.

"Rumor has it that it takes four or five years for those little American farming towns to get any sort of information from Europe. You can find farmer's wives wearing the Parisian fashions of five years ago. Perhaps they did not hear of the near crisis that was the Diamond Jubilee until just a year or two ago. It might have taken them even longer to discover that their dear daughter and sister was a part of the regicide plot, and is currently wanted for treason."

"Rose-"

"See this tombstone?" Lyon said, tracing the lettering on the stone she had been leaning on. "This was a friend of mine, one Gregory Rogers. He died soon after finding me in the East End. He was writing to Francis, letting them know that I was still alive. I have no idea if the letter was ever sent out. But surely they know of the disgrace I became by now. And you want me to face them again?"

"I said nothing of the sort," Basil said quietly. She heard something soft, yet with some weight, hit the ground. "I am only offering you the means of contacting them again if you so choose."

Lyon turned back toward Basil. A thick, tattered brown envelope was on the ground in front of her. She slowly picked it up. "Thank you, I guess."

"You are not happy at all?"

"I'm… disappointed." She sighed. "I now feel obligated to let them know that I'm all right. But that could have so many negative repercussions on me. It would certainly blow my cover, potentially ruin my career, and may even get me arrested and tried for treason. I'm too afraid of all that."

"I understand," the detective said. "No one is making you do anything you don't want to do."

"Well, I _want_ to contact them. But before this discovery I was safe in the ignorance of how to do so. Now you've thrust me out on a ledge, and I feel obligated to jump."

They fell into silence, one thousand thoughts and anxieties spinning through Lyon's mind. She felt like this meeting with Basil had caused her to regress; she was 18 and abandoned again, facing Basil as he had offered her the means of redemption soon after the attempted regicide of which she was a part. She just wanted to get these thoughts out of her head.

"What do I owe you for the services of the Pinkerton fellow?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing. You never asked my permission to search them out."

"You know how stubborn I am. I refuse to let your efforts go unrewarded."

"Just receive it as a kindness."

"BASIL! The man spent six years trying to find them!"

"Consider it to be a few weeks. The trail went cold several times, and Greene wrote back, giving it up. Then he'd stumble across something new, and follow that. So the work was really the equivalent of a few weeks."

"Fine. So how much do I owe for his weeks of work?"

"Nothing."

"BASIL!" she exclaimed again.

"Greene owed me a favor anyway."

"Basil, give me some solid way to repay it or else I'll be very angry with you and with myself," Lyon said, exasperated.

"Well…" the detective looked around them, making sure that no one was nearby. He then said, "My Meg is looking for a job. I don't like the idea, but her mind is set on it, and she won't be happy unless she tries it."

"Do you want me to find her a job? My editor is always looking for a female fashion writer. He makes me do it from time to time, but it's so dreadfully dull, I always fight him about it."

"I might take you up on that offer if she really can't find anything herself, but I don't think she'd like the idea. She doesn't trust you due to your professional relationship with Ratigan."

"So what did you have in mind?" she asked.

"I need you to keep your eyes and ears open the next time you're visiting Ratigan."

Lyon forced a few laughs. "I don't visit Ratigan. I haven't seen him since my last interview."

Basil raised an eyebrow. "Must I highlight all of the ways in which you betray your personal interactions with Ratigan?"

She folded her arms. "Go ahead."

"One: you call Meg 'Miss Sarentis,' instead of 'Mrs. Havers,' Ratigan is the only other person I know of who is so socially insensitive to her status as a widow. Two: you prevented a murder in June by alerting the Yard before it occurred. The Yard has no idea that the victim to be was a long-time associate of Ratigan's, although they do know that the cronies sent to carry out the murder were Ratigan's."

"Who told you that?"

Basil grinned, but said nothing.

"Damn you," she growled.

"Three: you have a recent picture of Ratigan in your locket."

"How would you know that?" Lyon exclaimed. "I wear my locket at all times, and I don't recall ever showing you its contents!"

Basil pointed to her chest. Lyon looked down; the locket was hanging open, revealing the picture.

"Four-"

"Okay, okay, you win!" she interrupted. "Ratigan knows I talk to you, I guess there's no harm in you knowing that I talk to him. But I will not snitch on him or his operations again. I only protected that man because the consequences of not doing so would have been much worse for many innocent people."

"I am not asking you to tell me where his lair is," Basil said. "I just want you to alert me if you become aware of any designs Ratigan has on Meg due to this job. You don't even have to tell me what they are. I just want to know when I have to start taking extra precautions with her."

Lyon sighed. "Sounds fair enough, I suppose. Ratigan would kill me, of course, but then again so would Miss Sarentis if she knew how well acquainted Ratigan and I are." She gathered up the tattered brown envelope and put it in her canvas bag. Picking up her dropped pistol and the pocketbook, she placed both items into her pocket. She stood up. "It's getting a little too chilly for me to be out here much longer."

He rose to his feet. "Good afternoon, Miss Lyon."

"Until we meet again, Mr. Basil."

Lyon left by the north gate, while Basil took the one facing the west side of the city.

* * *

Isabelle grasped my hand as we approached a daunting mansion built of white stone in a wealthy neighborhood.

"This is Mr. Jenners' house?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yup," Isabelle said. "Wait until you see the inside."

"You've been here before?"

"With my father, yes. Never on my own."

We arrived at the heavy oak door. Isabelle rang the doorbell.

"And it's 'Sir' Jenners," Isabelle said. "I keep telling you it's 'Mister,' because that's what the privates call him. He gets along swimmingly with them."

"That's not what Basil said."

"Basil and I must not be talking about the same man," Isabelle scoffed. "Mister-, erm, Sir Jenners is a politician, a military commander, a baronet, and has even managed to be a gentleman."

The door opened, and an elderly man with graying fur, dressed in a crisp, black suit appeared. "Yes?"

"We're here to see Sir Jenners," Isabelle said, handing him our calling cards.

The butler scrutinized the cards for a few moments, but bowed us into the cream marble foyer. I gaped at the marble around us. There were several statues of classical figures on the walls, miniature marble imitations of real works of art.

The butler led us into the parlor. The wallpaper was a dark red pattern, with dark chestnut furniture. The drapes were also red, with gold tassels hanging from them. There were few ornaments besides a few red and black vases, much in the style of ancient Greece.

The butler bowed again. "Please, wait here." He left the room and shut the door behind him.

"Isabelle," I hissed, "this is a very rich, very important man!"

"I know," she whispered back.

"Is he married?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She shrugged.

I bit my lower lip. "Oh, I'm so nervous! What should I say to him?"

"I'll make the introductions," she reassured me. "You'll know what to say when the time comes."

I took a few deep breaths, trying to clear my head so I could think clearly. "I'm not going to get the job, am I?"

"Oh, you silly goose!" Isabelle said, forcing me into a seat. "What does it matter if you do or don't? You can always look for another job. Mr. Jen- erm, Sir Jenners, may want someone with actual experience in cataloguing. But it's worth a shot, right?"

"I might faint from the nerves. I've never been in such a nice house. I'm way too poor to be here!"

"Meg! You look absolutely gorgeous in your new dress. And it is new- it's the latest fashion. You fit right in."

I closed my eyes. "Kill me now, before I make a fool of myself."

"Meg!"

I heard the click of the door opening. Isabelle jabbed me in the side and stood up. I followed suit, feeling somewhat wobbly and sick to my stomach.

A very large man entered the room. He was tall, and well-built- not too thick, and not too thin. His fur was a grayish-black, while he had a thin, black goatee on his chin. He wore a black suit with a red cravat. A long, thick tail swung lightly behind him, evidence that this well-dressed, handsome creature was a rat.

He smiled sweetly when he saw us. "Good afternoon, Miss Fremly," he said, his voice a low, reverberating baritone. He bowed before her. Taking her hand, he planted a gentle kiss on it. "What a pleasure it is to see you again."

"The pleasure is all mine, Sir Jenners," Isabelle said, curtsying and blushing in response.

"And who is this?" he asked, motioning towards me.

"Sir Jenners, this is my friend Mrs. Megana Havers."

"It is a pleasure, Mrs. Havers," Jenners said, taking my hand and offering it a kiss as well. I nearly melted when his lips touched my hand.

"Sir… Sir Jenners," I breathed.

"Please ladies, sit down," Jenners said. Isabelle and I sat next to each other on a velvet upholstered sofa. The gentleman took a dark leather chair across from us. "How is your father? I heard he's just left for the Porte."

"Yes, he left last week. He's seeing the Sultan on a diplomatic mission."

"When will he be back?"

"Sometime in March, I believe."

"Tell him to see me when he comes in, then."

"I will. He may be a bit delayed, though," Isabelle said, blushing again. "I am getting married around that time."

Jenners took her hand and looked at her ring. "Ah. And who is the lucky man?"

"Dr. David Dawson. He was previously of the Queen's 66th Regiment in Afghanistan."

"I like the fellow already," he said. "Although I believe I have come across his name in the papers. What is his current profession?"

"Oh, he has a small private practice here in London. He's also an associate of Mr. Basil of Baker Street," Isabelle said.

"The detective who saved the queen from Professor Ratigan at the Diamond Jubilee?"

"The same."

Jenners looked impressed. "And how did you meet this Dr. Dawson?"

"Well, it was in Shanghai, actually, while he, Basil, and Mrs. Havers here were on a case."

"You know these gentlemen as well?" Jenners asked me.

"Yes, sir," I replied. "I am Mr. Basil's secretary."

He peered curiously at me. "Pardon me for asking, but what is your maiden name?"

"Sarentis."

"Aha! I have heard of you in the papers before! So tell me," he said, his eyes twinkling, "is this visit really to gather clues for your next big case?"

"Not unless you've done something against the law," I said deviously.

He laughed.

"Actually," Isabelle interjected, giving me another swift jab in the side, "we did come here today to ask you something, but not about a case. I hear you're looking for someone to help catalogue your library."

"Yes, I am," Jenners said.

"Mrs. Havers here would like to help."

Jenners crinkled his forehead, displaying an obvious dislike for the idea. "Have you catalogued books before?" he asked me.

"Well… no," I said. "I do have some experience with organizing Mr. Basil's case files and doing some book-related research for him. I am a very fast learner, if someone will teach me how to catalogue a library."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Havers, but don't you already have a job with Mr. Basil?"

"Yes. However, I am looking to expand my knowledge."

He glanced at Isabelle and then back to me, as if sizing us both us. "I could teach you, but only if you picked it up very quickly. Come with me."

He got to his feet. We arose and followed him out of the room.

"My library is quite extensive," Jenners said as we went up the marble staircase. "I spent years gathering all sorts of tracts, pamphlets, rare books. Much of my collection actually deals with literature on the divine right of kings versus the equality of the three estates of government- king, lords, and commons- in making laws." He stopped on the landing and turned back to Isabelle and I. "Do you know what I am talking about?"

Isabelle shook her head. I pursed my lips together, and then asked, "From the Civil War?"

"Precisely," Jenners said, starting up again down a long, dark-paneled hallway. "There are original English Civil War tracts by William Prynne and Sir Robert Filmer, as well as copies of John Milton and Algernon Sidney's works."

"_That's_ probably why I thought he was related to Algernon Sidney," Isabelle whispered.

It was my turn to jab her as Jenners turned around. "What was that?"

"What do you think?" I asked. "Does the king have a divine right to rule?"

"I doubt my opinion on the issue matters much. The Dutch invasion of 1688 discouraged any future English king from insisting on the legitimacy of the divine right to rule." He pulled out a set of keys. Inserting a large brass key into the larger keyhole of the library, Jenners turned it until it clicked open. "The king, or queen, is merely a figurehead; nowadays the Prime Minister makes the major political decisions."

He opened the door and motioned for us to go in.

"But to answer your question, Mrs. Havers, I entirely disagree with the divine right to rule," he concluded. "An entire country cannot afford to give so much power to a single individual."

We entered the library. My jaw dropped at the sight. It must have been at least two floors tall and occupied an entire wing of the house. There were dark wood shelves on every available wall from the floor to the ceiling, filled with books. Thick, dark-green curtains hung over long, narrow windows, while the floor was a dark wood. There was a fireplace in the middle of the opposite wall, with a long, narrow mirror hanging over it, a small fire alight. There were several tables and a desk overflowing with paperwork, but nothing was on the ground except two piles of books as tall as Isabelle and I.

"I think I died and ended up in Paradise," I said softly. Jenners smiled at the comment.

"Have you _read_ all of these books?" Isabelle asked in disbelief.

"I might have been able to if I hadn't been in Parliament for so many years," he said. "Most of these books are collections of other men's libraries, where I had to take their entire collection in order to get a few of those Civil War tracts. I extended this room sometime ago to accompany the extras." He sighed. "It's become overwhelming. I am ashamed to say that several bedrooms have taken up the surplus. It's gotten to the point that some people who have perused these shelves have discovered several copies of the same book. That is why I want someone to catalogue it all; I have no inkling of what I truly own, or even where a specific book is when I want to read it. I would do it myself, but I have neither the time nor the patience. I can donate the surplus or any books I don't want to some library or other."

"Why don't you hire a professional librarian to catalogue everything?" I asked. Isabelle must not have liked that question, because she attempted another jab at my side. I easily sidestepped it, causing her to stumble and nearly trip over my feet with the momentum.

Jenners appeared amused. "Ladies, you should really stop doing that if you want to leave here with your ribs intact," he said, beginning to clear a spot on one of the tables.

We both glared at each other, blushing at the same time.

The gentleman had his back to us. "To answer that question, Mrs. Havers, let me just say that a professional librarian would not like the way in which I want the collection to be catalogued. I know what I want; it's easier if I can mold someone else into my way of thinking than work with already hardened clay."

He motioned me over to him. I stepped up to the table, Isabelle following behind. He placed a thin booklet on the table. "This tract is Sir William Temple's _Observations upon the United Provinces of the Netherlands._ Tell me where and when it was published, and what edition this is."

I opened the booklet and found the title page. "Erm… published in 1668. Wait, no, 1705, 1668 was the year he was ambassador at The Hague. This is the seventh edition, and it was published… well, these two places in London: 'within _Grays-Inn Gate_ next-'"

"London will do," Jenners interrupted. "Good, you can read seventeenth-century title pages. There are many clues to the place of publication. I am very concerned about where these tracts are published, because a lot of royalists lived in the United Provinces and published their tracts there during the Interregnum Period. After the Restoration, many republicans lived their exiles in that particular area as well. But some managed to get their works published in London, strangely enough."

"Oh," I said, trying to sound like I understood the significance.

"Here, let's try this William Prynne tract," he said, pulling out another one.

He gave me several more tracts and had me copy down the author, title, publication date, publisher or place of publication, and edition each time. When I had finished with the last tract he looked at my writing.

"It's legible, but can you type?" he asked.

"Yes."

He leaned against the table, folded his arms and looked at me. "Mrs. Havers, are you willing to go through this entire library and catalogue it for me?"

I glanced at Isabelle. She looked as shocked as I felt.

"Do you really mean that?" I asked, turning back to Jenners. "I got the job?"

"Only if you want it," he said.

"Oh yes!" I cried, putting my hands to my mouth.

"Will you be able to come in on Monday?"

"Yes."

He offered me his right hand. I placed my right hand in his and gave it several firm shakes. He clasped his left hand on top of my hand. "Excellent. I look forward to it."

* * *

"You never told me how handsome he is," I giggled as Isabelle and I entered 221 ½ Baker Street.

"I didn't think you'd consider him handsome. He is a rat, after all," she said.

"What does that have to do with his looks?" I asked.

"Nothing, I guess. But yes, isn't he handsome?" she squealed.

Basil and Dawson looked up from their chairs. They were leaning close to each other, indicating that they had been deep in conversation before we came through the door.

"Who's handsome?" Basil asked.

"Sir Jenners!" I exclaimed.

"Oh." Basil and Dawson shared a look of annoyance.

"How did the interview go?" the doctor asked.

"I got the job!" I blurted out, jumping up and down.

"What?" Basil asked, sounded stunned. "He actually hired you?"

"What, you didn't think it would happen?" Isabelle demanded.

Basil slouched in his armchair. "Not the very first day," he murmured. "Not this soon." He then reached for his violin, his sole comfort in times of distress.

* * *

Meg: Algernon Jenners is actually based on a fictional rat. I saw _The Secret of NIMH_ for the first time last week, and immediately fell in love with the villain rat, Jenner, because he is so charming and charismatic up until the end of that movie. I had created the character of Algernon Jenners, under a different name, long before I saw the movie, but used the physical description and some of movie Jenner's personality. By the way, just because this guy is a rat does not make him evil!

Also, when I refer to "the Civil War" in the future, I mean the English Civil War, not the American Civil War. It took me awhile as an American to get used to this designation every time I heard it from my British boyfriend and my Kiwi professor who specializes in seventeenth-century English History. Since the story does take place in England, it is natural, at least to my logic, that the English would consider any reference to "the Civil War" to be about a war that took place in their homeland.

If anyone is daunted by the information that I provided on the English Civil War, royalists, republicans, the United Provinces and the like, don't worry; I won't make any long references about that stuff again. I only wanted to give the reader an idea of what Meg would be doing while working for Jenners and how obsessed with the time period Jenners is. Any references made by him in the future will probably confuse Meg as much as it will confuse the reader.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

* * *

Meg: Finals and a research paper for a grant proposal. That's all I am going to say about the lack of updates.

* * *

Lyon took off a pair of reading glasses and rubbed her eyes, trying to temporarily blot out the figures on the paper before her.

Most of Gerard's paperwork had consisted of records tied to a paper trail of dozens of names that a tax collector would have trouble keeping track of. She wondered how Gerard knew these names were connected to Dagnar.

Most were records of foodstuffs from the country that ended up in three places: Reading, St. Albans, and Oxford, all placed in warehouses. There was also a record of imported metals that had reached the international docks.

Lyon did not know the significance. Combined, the foodstuffs were well over the amount that Ratigan usually used to feed his men. But the metals indicated a large-scale project that would require the numbers who would be fed by the food in the three locations.

There were two options that logically explained the numbers to Lyon- either the food managed to get to London to feed the small army required for a large-scale operation, or the metal was being sent to Reading, St. Albans, and Oxford.

Lyon placed her reading glasses back on. She picked up a notebook from the floor next to her desk and flipped through the pages, scanning the text. She stopped on a page with the address to the Customs House near the docks. If there was a longer paper trail behind the metal, it would be found there.

* * *

"The shipments never came through the Customs House?" Lyon asked for the third time in disbelief.

A short clerk in his fifties sat at a desk and peered through the files of "House and Co.," a mining company situated in Wakefield, West Yorkshire. "No, they did not," he said, his voice a high-pitched whine.

"But that means there is a shipment of 500 tons of steel and 800 tons of copper unaccounted for that came into London on August 15! An additional combined 2,000 tons of iron from September is also missing! All of this came into the country without going through customs!"

"Miss Lyon," he said testily, "this is His Majesty's Customs. We do not miss large shipments of that nature."

"But you did!" Lyon exclaimed, pointing to the figures on her paper. "It's all right here! There are goods illegally in your country!"

"Where did you get this record, Miss Lyon?"

"I can't tell you that," Lyon said.

The clerk rolled his eyes. "Miss Lyon, there is no front page news story here. In fact, I think you should leave."

Lyon blinked. "I beg your pardon!" she snapped.

"I am not going to make up a story because you want some sort of 'thriller' for your paper." He smirked. "You think you can come in here and accuse the Customs agents of missing several shipments of this caliber from House and Co.? Miss Lyon, House and Co. orders iron and steel regularly."

"But what about copper and nickel? I don't think those metals are used by coal companies."

"Are you a metallurgist, Miss Lyon?"

"No."

"Then you don't know what you're talking about."

"And neither do you, Mr. Small-time Clerk! Who is in charge of you?"

"_What?_" the clerk exclaimed.

"I want to speak to whoever is in charge of you."

"How _dare_ you! You have no right to-"

"As a citizen of this country I have every right to know why the Customs House refuses to ignore such blatant smuggling as is recorded on this paper!"

* * *

"Smuggling happens every day, Miss Lyon," Mr. Morrison, the head customs officer, said. It was two hours and five people later, and Lyon could barely hold in her temper. "We try to prevent it as much as we can, but some things can slip through."

"Like 5,000 tons of metals in the past four months?" she said, straining to remain calm.

"Miss Lyon, do you really think that the Customs House would miss so much metal? Every barge that comes through here must register, or else the water patrols are on their tails. Most of the smuggled goods are not metal, but tobacco. Shippers want to get it in duty free, so they hide them in coal barges or secret it about their persons."

"So how did it get past customs?"

He sighed. "There never was any sort of shipment of metal for House and Co. from the dates that you have listed. As far as I can tell, those shipments never existed. That paper you have must be false."

"But-"

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" Morrison interrupted impatiently.

Her face fell. She knew too well that he would not be more cooperative. "No."

"Good day, Miss Lyon."

The journalist turned around and walked slowly away, suddenly feeling as if a heavy weight was on her shoulders. She knew in her gut that those shipments had come into London, but she could not explain how they got past customs. They appeared to have simply vanished.

She walked down the stairs and out the door bearing the air of defeat. She sat down despondently on the wide steps and pulled out the piece of paper to examine once again. Ratigan would know how the metals got past customs, but she did not want his help on this. She hoped to avoid talking to him anytime soon, in case she heard some plan concerning Megana Sarentis. Then she would have to keep her promise to Basil and tell him that Ratigan was plotting something against the young woman. The last thing she wanted was to get entangled in the love rivalry between Basil and Ratigan.

She wondered why Ratigan was as drawn towards Megana as he was. Megana was the first woman he had loved since Rachel Dunlap. Or, at least, the first Lyon knew about since she and the criminal mastermind had gone their separate ways in 1897. She had not had any contact with Ratigan until just before his survival from falling off Big Ben had gone public with the discovery of his plot to take over the Danish throne, in late 1900. She found him sitting at her desk in her flat one evening, reading her notes on a recent interview with a psychiatrist at the local women's mental health ward. He left the window wide open, the curtains and his cape dancing to the sharp, sporadic breath of an October wind. His hat and a cane were on the table.

He remained sitting at her entrance, as if in ownership of her flat. He smiled gently, his eyes traveling from her brown boots to her plum colored skirt, white shirt, her blonde hair neatly pinned back beneath a slanting brown hat.

She dropped her canvas bag in shock, taken aback. In a few moments she recovered enough to shut and lock the door behind her. She stared at the lock for a few more moments, and then turned back around. He motioned to the notes in his hands. "These notes are haphazard and rushed. It makes your published work that much more impressive, that you were able to find the main point of interest to your readers and work a story around that single idea."

"You've been reading my stories?"

"Only the newsworthy ones. None of those female fashion pieces you were writing for awhile."

She shrugged. "That was all they would let me to do at first."

"Why did they change their minds?"

"When I did an unassigned story on a city council meeting. Another male colleague did the same story. He attended half the meeting and left. I stayed the entire time, and was there when an argument broke out between two councilmen that turned into a fistfight. Needless to say, my story was the more compelling one. The other reporter was nearly sacked for clocking out early."

She had remained by the door, almost afraid that if she made any sudden moves he would vanish. He set the notes on her desk and stood up.

"You've done well," he said.

"Thank you."

She slowly approached the kitchen table, the only thing dividing him and her. She carefully took off her slanting hat and placed it on the tablecloth, next to his top hat. She slowly ran her hands over her hair, smoothing it.

"You look the same as I left you," she said. "Have you retired?"

He chuckled. "Not at all. I've been coming back for nearly three years now. I've got quite a surprise planned for Europe."

"What is it?"

"You'll find out. All in good time, Rose."

He said the name as if it was a series of music notes lovingly plucked from the strings of his harp. She shook her head. "It's Renée now, Professor."

"It's James now, Rose." Her name sounded just as musical on his tongue. She tried to think of something else, but all she could hear was his voice saying her name. "'Renée' does not do justice to the beauty of your marvelous mind or person."

"It's only an alias. It means 'reborn.'"

"No one has called you 'Rose' in three years, have they?"

"No. No one." She paused. "Except Basil of Baker Street. I've run into him several times since I came back to England."

"He doesn't give you any trouble, I hope."

"No. No trouble at all."

"Good. Because if he does…" His words flew away with the next gust of wind, his cape enveloping him like a cocoon, her skirts blowing out behind her. They stood in silence, staring at each other as if across a deep chasm. And suddenly Lyon had an impulse to leap across it, regardless of whether she made it or fell.

She shivered at the thought and turned away, hoping to break the spell. "Why are you here, now?" she whispered, her words lost in the living air. He did not hear her, but strode forward, took off his cape and began to wrap it around her. She slipped away from him and shook her head at the gesture. "I am fine." She paused before adding, "James."

He shrugged and placed the cape back on. "Are you happy, Rose?"

"Yes. I have a job that I like, and it motivates me every day to do the best job I can."

"Anything else?"

"No. It's all I have. It's enough to satisfy me. And you, James, are you happy?"

"Almost."

"What do you wish for?"

"You." He said it simply, as if the answer were self-explanatory.

She shot him a questioning look. "What do you mean?"

"I am here for three reasons. The first is to see your lovely person again. The last I saw you, you strode confidently out of a flat, intent on 'rebirthing' yourself, I suppose, as Renée Lyon. Now I see this beautiful, successful young woman before me, who appears to have fully earned her own happiness. The second is to ask you if you would like to join me again."

"You're surely kidding!"

"No, I am not. Do you know how hard it is to find good men nowadays? You were the best damn worker I ever had. And also one of the smartest." She looked up into his eyes. There was no mockery, only a kindness not usual for him.

She shook her head. "No thank you. I like where I am now."

He shrugged again. "The third reason is in case you rejected that offer. I would like to see more of you."

"Why?"

"Why not? I like you, Rose. I have always liked you."

"I like you too."

"Then why shouldn't two people who like each other be able to enjoy each other's company?"

She smiled. "You're a criminal. I'm a regular citizen. People will talk."

"Not if they don't know. It would be such a comfort to not have Basil or the Yard on your tail trying to get _my _tail."

She put her hands on her hips and studied his face. He appeared at ease, frank, and certain that he belonged here, back in her life. The strange thing was it felt natural too, as their self-imposed separation for the past three years were the unnatural part of their lives, as if this meeting was theirs not by right, but because they had earned it.

"All right, Professor Ratigan. Tea next Tuesday, here? We can catch up on each other's lives."

He laughed. "Tea? We've never tried that before."

"No, you were always too busy for such social ceremonies," she said, smiling. "Then again, we never tried being friends, did we?"

"Friends?" Ratigan turned the word over in his mouth as if it was sour to him. Lyon swore she could see the process in his mind as he measured out the meaning of the word against her behavior. And then she thought she had an idea of why he had come to see her.

"Yes, friends. If I am to be in your life again, it certainly won't be as a mere acquaintance. We know each other too well."

"Some would say we know each other too well to be friends."

"They don't know the difficulties we have gone through to get to that point," she replied.

He nodded, smiling, but she thought she saw a light behind his eyes that seemed like unformed tears. If her guess was right, then the spark died before it could create the physical form of an emotion too violent for the likes of Ratigan to express. "All right, Miss Lyon," he said. "Tea it is."

"But please, don't leave your calling card," she said.

He guffawed at that comment. He gathered up his hat and cane. "If you insist." Then, taking her hand, he gently placed his lips on it as means of a farewell. "It's good to see you again," he said warmly.

"It's good to see you too, James," she said.

He tipped his hat to her, stepped out onto the window ledge and vanished from sight.

One week later she received a message from him cancelling his social call due to unexpected business. It was another few weeks when she learned that Ratigan had tried to take over the kingdom of Denmark using a servant girl of Basil of Baker Street. To make up for the missed appointment, however, Ratigan asked Lyon to interview him and publish his story. When she objected to being a recipient of his charity, he replied: "It's not what you know, it's who you know." She knew he was right; the world operated on that mantra.

She had asked him about Megana Sarentis, but he brushed the topic aside, labeling her as a tool to an end that had not been met. In the two interviews Ratigan had granted her since, the topic of Megana Sarentis was either ignored or met with impatience. During her most recent interview Lyon had particularly pushed the subject until Ratigan had stormed out of the room in anger, leaving her and her photographer stunned. He did not return until he had played two songs on his harp.

She wrote the reaction into her article, knowing that not even Basil would understand it. And she still did not understand it. By all accounts from his henchmen he was infatuated with Megana. The reporter, however, did not sense that Ratigan's heart was Meg's whenever he was with Lyon.

She shook her head, snapping back to the present reality. She wracked her memory for any sort of remembrance from her time as Ratigan's servant girl and henchman. She recalled similar paperwork like the sheet before her, but nothing detailing how it all got past customs.

She stopped, her eyes settling to the last figure on the page. The other figures were tonnage, but this one was a monetary figure. She had brushed this off as the purchasing price of the metals. But something seemed wrong with the prices.

She turned and looked back at the doors of the Customs House, where men bustled in and out. She stood up and went back inside.

* * *

Lyon walked into the offices of _The Daily Press_, also the location of _The Aline Monthly_. She strode past the reporters sitting at their desks, working on their stories. She waved to a few of them, but the rest ignored her.

"Afternoon Renée," a slim man in his early thirties said from his desk. He was the secretary to _Aline_ editor Lawrence Gault.

"Hello Eddie."

"Thought you were on a long-term assignment."

"I am," she said. "Is Larry in?"

"Nope. He's down at the presses—there was a problem printing next month's issue, so he might be down there for awhile."

"Oh." Her face fell.

"Got a problem?"

"Yes, actually," she sighed. "I'm trying to figure out how to track illegal activity, and I'm not entirely sure where to go next."

Eddie grinned. "Aren't you an expert on illegal activities?" he asked slyly.

She playfully smacked him. "I may be. What's Larry's stance on breaking into government buildings?"

"Let's see. No. No. And… no."

"Will I get fired?"

"You'll get arrested! And not only the magazine, but the newspaper will probably be shut down by the government. Why do you ask?"

"The Customs House may be behind some illegal smuggling. They won't let me look at their files."

Eddie frowned. "And you want to break in?"

"We've done it before."

"In private homes and offices. But this is government property!"

"I know," she sighed, sitting on the edge of his desk. "I just feel so desperate sometimes when people don't talk to me or give me all the information. And those customs agents did nothing but lie to my face today." She placed the paper with the figures on the table and pointed to the monetary number. "I asked one of those agents today to give me the duties on the metals on this sheet. They added up to this number. Yet the other agents I spoke with today claimed that no orders like the ones on these sheets ever existed for those dates for House and Co."

Eddie shrugged. "Did you see the files?"

"No. They wouldn't let me handle them. They opened them and looked through them, sure, but they wouldn't let me look at them myself."

"Hmmm…" Eddie bit the tip of his pencil. "What's your story on again?"

"Geoffrey Dagnar."

"Who's he?"

"Either a criminal or a very sneaky businessman."

"Aren't they the same thing?"

She laughed. "Perhaps."

His lips broke into a brief smile, but then grew serious again. "Ten to one there's something in those files, clear as day. Go back and demand to look at them and handle them, not have some clerk read it off to you."

"I tried. They wouldn't let me."

"Government records are public domain. They don't have the right to withhold them from a citizen. Customs falls under that category. Of course, they'll fight you over it, so you may not get the information for several weeks if you do demand your right as a citizen. They try to waste your time so you won't be able to look at the books."

"If Dagnar is as dangerous a man as James said he was, then that information may not be there in several weeks, if it's there at all," she said under her breath.

"Who's James?"

Lyon felt her face grow warm at her slip-up. "Oh, some man I interviewed about Dagnar," she replied uneasily. "Darwin James."

"Well, James may be right. That information may not be there by the time you get to it."

"Could I go to House and Co. and look at their files instead?"

He shook his head. "You're allowed to look at government files, but you don't have any right to demand access to private business files."

They fell into silence, each pondering the angles in which they could approach customs about the files. She heard the scratching of pencils on paper and scattered conversations from the reporters at the desks around them. The noise was distracting, not giving her a clear idea of where to go next.

She looked at her watch and sighed. "It's nearly five o'clock," she said sadly. "They'll be closed by the time I get there, and tomorrow is Sunday. The people I'll want to talk to will not be there."

"Well, that gives you until Monday, right?" Eddie asked.

"Yes. But not if they destroy the files I need!"

"If the files exist, Renée. They may not."

"I know."

Eddie began to put the items on his desk into the drawers. "Are you going home soon?"

"Probably."

"Do you want to grab some dinner at The Stag and Hare? That's where I usually eat. It's a good place."

"Oh…" Lyon pursed her lips, and then said, "I'm making dinner for an old friend of mine who just dropped in unexpectedly."

"Oh." He looked a little disappointed. "Well, are you available next week?"

"Perhaps," she said slowly.

"How about tomorrow evening?"

"I don't really know where this story will lead me, Eddie. I'm not sure if I can make any plans ahead of time."

"Do you need to follow these sources immediately?"

"Today's lead is vital to follow."

"How about Monday night, then?"

"Erm…"

"At five? I can come by your place."

"Oh… all right," she said reluctantly. "You have my address?"

"Yes."

"Well, I should get going. I'll see you Monday, then."

"Good evening."

"Evening."

She walked out of the office with the annoyance of having too much asked of her. There was no friend coming over for dinner. She liked Eddie, but she did not feel like associating with him on anything except a professional basis. She had hoped that her white lie would have discouraged him from asking her to dinner.

She stepped out into the windy evening air, her stomach sinking in dread of the dinner she and Eddie would share in two days' time. She was not afraid of lying about her past to him; she already had a pretty solid story, names and associations to bring up if he asked. It was more that she did not want to socialize with anyone else. She had tried to make friends, once, but there was always a barrier. She knew she was different from them. Part of that came from hiding an essential part of her life from them. The other part came from her naturally introverted personality, which made conversation awkward and forced unless she was able to connect with someone on an intellectual level. She did not think that she and Eddie matched up on that level.

When she arrived at her cold, dark flat, she suddenly felt overwhelmingly lonely, as if she was doomed to a thousand years of nights without the warmth of another's presence.

She threw herself on her bed and laid there, her face pressed into the quilt. _Don't go to him, don't see him, don't run to him…

* * *

_

Meg: Some historical notes: I know nearly nothing about customs and duties in the nineteenth century. I don't know much about journalism in that time period either. I base a lot of the journalism practices that Lyon discusses on modern U.S. journalism, which was not established until the 1920s. European journalism tends to be more politically-based, which I will try to bring into the story as soon as I figure out what political parties were prevalent at the time. I apologize for not being entirely historically accurate.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

* * *

Meg: My apologies. This chapter is not one of my better ones; it's mainly a filler chapter to keep things going. This story is going to be much longer than planned; there are pretty much three storylines going on at once, after all. Lydia will be brought more into the story in subsequent chapters.

* * *

The wind blew fiercely in long, desperate gasps of breath. I instinctively moved closer to Basil to use his body as a shield against the wind. He had one hand clamped on his deerstalker to prevent it from blowing away, while I hung onto his other arm. He took long, quick steps as if he wanted his errand to be over with as soon as possible, forcing me to run along with him.

There were many men out at this time of the morning leaving their homes to go to work. Others, peddlers of wares, were making the rounds from door to door with offerings of meat vegetables, or buying kitchen scraps like bones and fat from the matrons standing at the doors.

The clock struck nine in a church steeple nearby, followed by a chorus of church bells from adjoining neighborhoods. We turned a corner and entered a quiet cul-de-sac dominated by stone mansions.

I pointed to the largest of these houses. Basil nodded and headed in that direction.

I stopped him when we were at the gate. The wind's sting considerably lessened behind the stone posts. "I can make it the rest of the way by myself," I said.

"What if he's not home?" Basil asked.

"He should be. He told me he'd be here."

"I better have a word with him, to make sure he knows when I'll be here to get you."

"Basil! I can walk home fine by myself!"

"Not with Ratigan still out there. We've discussed this already."

"I know. I just feel like you're treating me like a little child," I said sourly.

"You can't let your guard down for one minute." His eyes darted from side to side, as if expecting one of Ratigan's henchmen to materialize from the blustery atmosphere. But no one was in sight. "This is a bad idea."

"Why are you making this so difficult?" I snapped. "I _want_ this job. I earned it from a man who apparently thinks that women are stupid, and I have never felt happier! You, however, couldn't be less dissatisfied! You never let Ratigan affect any aspects of _your_ life, you throw yourself into any sort of dangerous situation with no regard for how terrified _I _am, and yet you treat me as if I am some sort of incompetent piece of glass!"

"Incompetent _what_?!" I saw him mouth in disbelief.

"Glass you fool, glass!" I barked. "It's like I'm fragile and yet don't have any brains to take care of myself! You taught me how to shoot, it's not like I'm unarmed! I have a gun in my pocket, due to your wishes! And if my employer found out… oh, I'd be so ashamed, but I am protected, and I don't need to be walked to the door!"

"We will talk about this later," Basil said, his face void of emotion. "I'll be back around four." He turned and began to stride down toward the main thoroughfare.

I passed through the gate and went up to the door. I rang the doorbell and turned back around. Basil had stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac and watched me. I frowned and turned back around.

The same aged butler I had seen on Friday came to the door. He peered curiously at me, as if wondering what I was doing there. "Yes?" he asked.

"Mister Jen-, erm, I mean, Sir Jenners, hah-hired me to ca-catalogue his library," I said nervously, aware that Basil was watching the conversation, even if he could not hear it.

"Sir Jenners is not here," the butler said.

"Oh? He asked me to come today, at nine in the morning, to begin working."

The butler did not move. I felt foolish standing there. Had Jenners not explained the job to his servants?

"Do you know when he'll be back?" I asked softly.

He remained where he was, but his eyes traveled to something behind me, and I strongly suspected that it was Basil he was watching. He sighed and motioned for me to come inside.

When the door was closed behind me, he said, "Would you like to wait in the drawing room?"

"I…I'm supposed to start working in the library with the books, I think."

The butler looked perplexed and confused. "Wait here a moment," he said. He headed down the hallway and through a door at the end of the hall.

As soon as he was gone I rushed to the little side window and looked out into the cul-de-sac; it was void of any living thing. Basil had either left or was hiding in the bushes, spying on Jenners' house.

I frowned at the thought and resumed the same position I had been in when the butler had left. Several minutes passed; I occupied myself with looking at the intricate marble statues in the foyer for some time, staring at several Greek athletes and a Pallas Athena. I shortly became bored, however, and hoped from foot to foot, wondering what was taking so long.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour later when the butler finally returned. "I've telephoned Sir Jenners. He apologizes for not being here, but business suddenly took him away yesterday. He says you may stay in the library and get acquainted with your surroundings. I will take you up there now if you wish."

"Yes, thank you."

As we were walking up the stairs I said, "Sir Jenners has a telephone?"

All I received was a curt reply in the affirmative. The butler did not say anything else.

We entered the library. There was no fire lit in the fireplace; the butler pulled open the heavy curtains and turned on the gas lights. He then cleared some items off the desk, placed them in the desk drawers and locked them. "Ring the bell if you need anything," he said more out of habit than politeness, pointing to a pull on the wall near the door.

"Will Sir Jenners return today?" I asked.

"I do not know."

"Where am I supposed to start?"

"I do not know."

"Do you know what he wants me to do today?"

"All he said is get acquainted with the library."

"No other instructions?"

"No, ma'am." He made a slight bow and left.

I slowly took off my bonnet and shawl, looking at the impressive library around me. It would certainly take me more than one day to get acquainted with it, but I was not used to sitting idle in someone else's home. I did not want to start cataloguing in case I somehow did it wrong. I had a vague idea of how Jenners wanted it done, but he had told me that he would give me detailed instruction today.

I set my wrappings on a chair, and then wandered over to the table where the pamphlets that Jenners and I had looked over on Friday were still laid out. There were some newspaper clippings and papers on top of the pamphlets. I began to set them aside so I could look at the work I had done on Friday; perhaps looking at that paper would give me some idea of what I should do until Jenners arrived. I hesitated, however, when I noticed a name in one of the articles; the name not of the article's author, but of the person the article covered.

_Renée Lyon_.

I picked up the article and read it. The article was an editorial on Lyon's lack of ethics or a moral code in interviewing Ratigan and refusing to give police an idea of where the Napoleon of Crime was. The article accused her of fraternizing with the enemy and questioned the journalist's relationship with him, going so far as to suggest that Lyon might possibly be Ratigan's lover because she was the only journalist who had ever been granted an interview by him in both his academic and criminal careers. The lines about Lyon possibly being Ratigan's lover were underlined in pen, as was information about her personal life- a brief mention of her birth in Colmar and subsequent life in England after her French father's death, as well as the beginning of her professional career.

The other articles were the three interviews with Ratigan cut out from _The Aline Monthly. _

I looked through the paperwork, but they mainly appeared to be business transactions. I sat back and looked at the editorial's underlined phrases again. Why was Jenners interested in Lyon?

* * *

Lyon strode into the Customs House at nine in the morning, looking neither to the right nor to the left until she reached the first clerk she had dealt with on Saturday.

"Good morning, sir. I want to look at those files on House and Co. again," she said, trying hard to not make her smile look like a smirk.

He looked up from the papers in his hands. "You're back?"

"Yes. May I see those files? The ones you looked at on Saturday?"

The clerk's lips turned upward, but not into a smile; it appeared to be a smirk of the nature that Lyon had been trying hard to conceal. "Of course, Your Majesty," he said. He got up and walked towards the cabinets full of files.

She folded her arms and sat down, aware that something was entirely wrong about his attitude.

He came back with the files. He opened them up, cleared his throat, and said, "What do you want to know again?"

"May I see the files, in my hands, now?" she asked with an edge of impatience in her voice.

The clerk flipped through the papers. He definitely smirked at her now, pushing the files towards her. "Go ahead."

Lyon slowly turned each page over from the four files before her. She glanced at the figures of shipment tonnage, the dates, the prices of duties on the metals. She did not see anything pertaining to nickel, and she saw that there had not been any shipments that went through London in the past four months.

She glared at him. "You bastards," she growled.

"Language, Miss Lyon! Didn't your parents teach you any manners?"

"They taught me to be polite to respectable men, not gutterscum! Where's the rest of the paperwork?"

"You have all of it in your hands."

"Where's the information you didn't want me to see?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying her frustration.

She jumped out of her chair and threw the files at him, the violence of her act causing him to lose balance and fall backwards completely with a loud shriek. Half of the room stopped and stared at the commotion. "You tell whoever you're covering up for that he better hire a new lackey, because your poker face is terrible!" She picked up her bag and stormed out of the Customs House.

* * *

At four that afternoon I tripped down the front steps of Jenners' mansion. Basil and Dawson waited by the gate. I was glad for Dawson's presence; the day had not been at all as I thought it would go, and I strongly doubted that the detective would mete out any sympathy.

"Meg! How was your first day of work?" Dawson asked, sounding cheerful.

"All right, I suppose," I said. We began to walk back home.

"How did Jenners treat you?" Basil asked.

"He actually wasn't there. Away on business or something."

"What did you do all day?"

"Well, Jenners didn't leave any instructions for me except to get acquainted with the library," I said slowly. "I tried to document some pamphlets on scrap paper, but quit after two pages because I didn't think I was doing it the right way. So I read the titles of the books and pamphlets on the shelves of the library and tried to organize them into manageable piles. I didn't get very far in what I was doing, and I think the butler was displeased at the presence of the piles."

"It doesn't seem like an enjoyable time," Dawson said sympathetically.

"It wasn't," I admitted.

"Humph!" Basil grunted. "Typical of Jenners, from what I've heard. No regard for your time. He's just going to continue wasting your time like this."

"It's only the first day," I said defensively. "It appears he was called away too quickly to leave instruction. Even his butler did not know where he had gone and how long he'd be away."

"If he isn't there tomorrow, I think you should tell him that you won't put up with it and quit," Basil said.

"Basil! I am not going to throw away this job just because of today!"

"Your time is as valuable as his."

"Not necessarily; he appears to be a very busy man. I don't really have anything important to do outside this job."

"You could be helping Dawson and I track down 'Lydia' and 'Shaun.'"

"You can do it without me."

"Don't let this man abuse you, Meg. Stand up for yourself.

"All right, but after I've given him a few days."

Basil started to say something, but I interrupted, "Did you find any leads?"

"No," Dawson sighed. "We started interviewing various Edward Brants near the docks, but none of them seem to know anything about the letter. It's a dull and arduous process."

"We're not done discussing Meg's situation," Basil said impatiently. "Meg, I can talk to Jenners if-"

"We are done," Dawson said with a sharpness unusual for the mild doctor. "Do not bring it up again. She said she'd take care of it."

"You can't ignore-"

"BASIL!" we chorused.

"Fine. Suit yourselves."

He remained silent for the remainder of the walk home.

* * *

Lyon and Eddie sat at a table in The Stag and Hare. Lyon angrily stabbed her cod fish with her fork. "That man didn't even try to hide the fact that files were missing. He was gloating over it!"

"That is frustrating," said Eddie. "What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know," she said. "I may be able to get another lead from some papers I have in my possession, but it took me long enough to find the discrepancy in the customs records."

"You'll find something," he said encouragingly. He then began to talk about his day at the office, telling her an elaborate story about how some nobleman threatened to sue _The Daily Press_ for libel due to an article that had recently been printed.

She stared at the fish on her plate. The food here was decent, but the company left much to be desired. Eddie sometimes stumbled over words when he talked, not from nerves but from a disposition to do so in a social setting. It was as if he did not know how to speak confidently when not at work. She, meanwhile, was itching to get back to her flat to go over the papers there for the hundredth time. But she could not find any solid leads there from the little she understood of it.

_Maybe the leads aren't in those papers,_ she thought.

They both were nearly done with their meals when inspiration struck. She slapped her hand on the table. "I'll go to the headquarters of House and Co.!" she exclaimed.

Eddie was taken aback. "What?!"

"West Yorkshire. Wakefield. They're situated there. I can perhaps gather some information from there."

"Do, do you think they'll, they'll let you look at their files?"

"No, unless I show some bosom, or at least leave my hair down. I've received valuable interviews with the right wardrobe, oddly enough."

Eddie frowned. "I, I, I guess you co-could try it," he said reluctantly. "But you're going to travel to West Yorkshire by yourself?"

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "I could go, wi-with you. For protection."

"No thanks."

"They destroyed those files. What if they want to harm you?"

"Nonsense. Why would they want to harm me?"

* * *

The next day I entered Jenners' house feeling rather upset. Basil and I had had another argument on the way over to his house. I went up the stairs and headed to the library. This job was supposed to distance myself from Basil to hopefully improve our relationship, but all it seemed to do so far was create animosity.

When I entered the library I saw Sir Jenners sitting at his desk, shuffling through some papers. He glanced up. "Mrs. Havers, I would like to apologize for yesterday, but could you give me a moment? I need to finish something here before I forget."

"By all means," I said, smiling. His presence alone lifted my mood; I would be able to actually do some productive work today _and_ rub it in Basil's face that he was wrong about Sir Jenners.

He found what he was looking for and began to write something on a separate sheet of paper. I took off my wrappings and placed them on the chair nearby. Then I wandered back over to the table. The Lyon articles had been moved around a bit, but my own paperwork from the day before had not been touched. I fingered one of the pamphlets and began to read it so I did not look like I was sitting idly by.

Several minutes later he set his pen down and stood up. "I beg your pardon, but I had to do that first."

"It's perfectly all right, Sir Jenners," I said.

He took some paper and pens from his desk and approached me. "I must apologize for yesterday, Mrs. Havers. I was called away on some important business late Saturday evening. I thought I'd be back before yesterday morning, so I did not leave any instructions. I feared that if I told George over the telephone what I wanted you to do it would be mistranslated, and your work would have been for naught."

"It's perfectly understandable," I replied. "I didn't mind."

"Good. You'll still be paid for yesterday."

"Oh! Tha-thank you. It… it doesn't matter to me."

"How did you occupy yourself yesterday?"

He set the paper and pens on the table and began to clear away some of the work while I explained what I did, pointing to the piles of books and pamphlets and the few pages I had tried to write myself. He nodded, appearing neither impressed nor concerned. He halted when he came to the Lyon articles, however.

"I've been meaning to ask you," he said quietly, "What does Mr. Basil of Baker Street think of Miss Renée Lyon, the journalist?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you read her interviews with Professor Ratigan?"

"Yes."

"What does he think of them?"

"I don't know," I said. "They don't seem to bother him."

"Really?" Jenners looked surprised.

I nodded. "I'm not sure why. I think he knew Miss Lyon before she became a journalist, but he doesn't press her for information as to Ratigan's whereabouts."

"Have you met her?"

"Yes, several times."

"What is your impression of her?"

"She's a cold, callous woman. She has no regard for other people's feelings or opinions, although she is polite enough, I suppose."

"And yet you say Basil is friendly with her?"

"Yes."

"How well do they know each other?"

"I don't know. But when they are together he appears to know details of her life. I believe she once asked him if he'd offer help to 'a former troublemaker.'"

"Hm." He pulled out a picture and showed it to me. "Is this Miss Lyon?"

I peered at a picture of a group of men standing together, with a woman seated in the middle. Her light hair was pinned back. The caption said 'Staff of Daily Press.'

"Yes, that's her," I said.

He stared thoughtfully at the picture. Then he set it down with the rest of the articles and began to take them away. "Let me show you what to do, then," he said.

"All right," I said. "But may I ask a question?"

"Sure."

"Why are you interested in Miss Lyon?"

Jenners chuckled as he placed the articles on his desk. "Can you keep a secret? Even from your friend, Mr. Basil?"

"Yes," I said eagerly.

"The government is watching her more closely. That third interview on Ratigan only came out in this month's _Aline Monthly, _and the Crown is concerned for the welfare of its citizens. I've been asked by the King to keep an eye on her."

"Really?" I said, betraying excitement in my voice.

He smiled as he returned to the table. "Not fond of her?"

I shook my head.

"Good. Then I can ensure that you will not tell Mr. Basil what I told you?"

"Of course. You don't want him to get involved, do you?"

"Precisely! If he is friendly with her he may be an impediment to our investigation."

"Of course," I repeated.

He nodded approvingly, and then came back to the table. "Let's get you started on your job, then," he said, taking a piece of clean paper and a pen in his hands.

* * *

Meg: I realized too late that 1903 was no longer the Victorian Era, but the Edwardian Era. As a result of this I need to change Jenners' relation to the royal family of England. Not that it matters much, I suppose, but my intention was to have Jenners be related to the reigning monarch at the time. When I said he was a distant cousin of the Queen I was thinking of Queen Moustoria (Victoria). Since her death in 1901, however, her son Edward reigned, with Alexandra of Denmark as his consort. So he'd either have to be a relation of Alexandra or a relation of Edward. Anyway, I'll fix Chapter Three if I decide that I want him to be related to Edward instead of Alexandra.

And Happy New Year, everyone! I hope 2009 is an excellent year for all of you!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

* * *

Meg: I would like to thank The Mouse Avenger for catching a pretty big mistake in the previous chapter. When I originally posted the chapter, Eddie told Lyon about a nobleman threatening to sue The Daily Press for slander. As The Mouse Avenger, however, reminded me:

"_...while the terms [are] often used interchangibly, "slander" [is] technically used in reference to spoken word (for example, if two people were in a heated verbal argument, & the second guy thought the first guy was insulting him or bad-mouthing him, he'd probably accuse the first guy of slander), while "libel" [is] technically used in reference to literature or the press, like if someone sued the people who wrote "The National Enquirer" for publishing an article or something else about them in their magazine that made them look bad." _

As a journalism major I should know better. You may throw cream pies at me later. Thanks, MA, for letting me know so I could change "slander" to "libel."

And thanks for everyone who gives me words of advice on grammar and spelling on a regular basis, especially erosgirl and The Mouse Avenger. I may not always acknowledge it right away, but I often implement such changes when I go back and edit chapters in finished and current stories of mine.

* * *

Lydia sat in the study, alone. A book lay open on her lap, a translation of Plutarch's _Lives_. Although her finger was raised above the first words of a paragraph on the life of Alexander the Great, her eyes stared straight ahead, her vision blurred by looking at one place too long without focusing on any particular object. From the next room haunting chords mourning the guilty man's fate on the Day of Judgment faintly reached her ears, transporting her away from the dark sewers to a secret place in her own mind.

The study door flew open, reality coming back to the girl in a rush of color and light. "Boss wants to speak with you," Mikey said.

Lydia blinked a few times, trying to refocus her eyes. "What does he want?"

"Just come on," he said.

She rose to her feet and gently placed the book down on the sofa. She followed Mikey through the door, down the hallway and into Ratigan's office, the chorus proclaiming as she entered:

_Dona eis requiem…_

The rat sat on the edge of his desk, while Gerard and three of his gang sat on assorted chairs before him. Mikey seated himself in the only remaining chair, so Lydia stood halfway between Ratigan's desk and the door. A gramophone played in the corner, the source of the Latin chorus Lydia had heard from the adjoining room. "You asked for me?" she said quietly, looking at his shoes.

"Yes," he said. "I want to discuss your living situation."

Lydia's eyes shot up and gave him a questioning stare. His face showed no expression. "What would you like to discuss?" she asked cautiously.

"Tonight Gerard is taking you up to the surface. You will be living near the wharf by the East India Docks."

"Why?" she asked, striving to keep her voice steady despite the sudden sickness in her stomach. "I thought you said I could stay here until Shaun came back."

A smirk grew on Ratigan's face. "And you are now going to the docks. Where does it matter where you are going, as long as you can live off the hard work of people better than you?"

"The only reason I am down here is because you told me I would never hear from Shaun again if I did not stay," Lydia said, her voice low.

"Don't put words in my mouth," Ratigan snapped. "I believe I told you that he would never know where to find you."

"And then you opened up your home to her," Ray, one of the quintuplets, chimed in.

"Yes, I did," the professor replied with another smirk.

Lydia's hands started to shake. She clasped them tightly and stared straight ahead as the chorus sang words from the next movement:

…_de poenis inferni  
et de profundo lacu… _

"You've lived off of my goodwill for long enough," Ratigan continued. "You are now going to help me."

"You want me to work for you?"

"Let's not fool ourselves. 'Want' is such a strong word. I don't _want_ your cooperation. I am forced into this. You and Shaun Parker have caused me nothing but grief for the past few months, and now your little 'lettres de l'amour' are causing people to poke into my business who should not be doing so."

She cocked her head to one side. "I don't understand. Who's poking their nose into your business?"

"The Royal Navy, Mouseland Yard, and that infuriating detective Basil of Baker Street have a hold on some of your boy friend's letters," Ratigan said. "They want to track down the recipient of the letters. If they track you down here, they'll be all over this place. I will not lead them down here just because of your silly relationship with an irresponsible man."

"How could they track me?" she asked. "Don't all of the letters go to Mr. Mayhew?"

"Yes, but Mayhew is old and handicapped. It would be very difficult for him to slip police observance. You don't want to give him more work now, do you?"

"No," she said softly. "I would do anything to make life easier for him."

"You better be certain about that," Ratigan said, folding his arms." You're living with him until this all blows over."

She stood, stunned, for a few moments, refusing to believe the good news Ratigan had just given her. "Can you repeat that, please?"

"Mayhew has agreed to take you in until the suspicion behind Parker's letters is dispelled," the rat said.

"Mr. Mayhew?"

"Yes. But don't think you can continue to be as lazy as you are down here. There are certain conditions for you moving up to the surface with him. While there you will treat Mayhew as your grandfather, and you will change your name to Lydia Brandt. You better act the part of a dutiful granddaughter," Ratigan growled. "Don't give Mayhew any reason to regret taking you in."

"I will do all I can to not be a burden," Lydia said, hoping she could pay back Mayhew for past kindnesses.

"You also must act the part for the sake of Mayhew's neighbors and as well as the police. Do not mention Parker to the neighbors. If the police come concerning the letters, you will act as if Mayhew has no idea about your relationship with Parker, as if you are hiding it from him."

"That should not be too hard," Lydia said. "I had to do that with my parents."

"You had better use that skill, then," he said. "Otherwise you are completely useless to me."

The words stung, but she did not look him in the eyes or acknowledge she had heard them.

"You will act agitated and upset, especially if they press the issue," Ratigan continued. "You may eventually confess to a secret love affair with Parker, but for God's sake do it with more decorum than you did with your own parents."

"They screamed at me, and I lost my temper," she said defensively.

"Mayhew can't talk, so you will not have any excuse if you do screw it up!" Ratigan snapped.

They stopped talking, the skipping of the record on the gramophone filling the silence.

"Fix that," Ratigan said, sweeping his hand from the quintuplets on the chairs to the gramophone, addressing no one in particular.

They all glanced at each other. Finally Frank got up and went over to the machine. Ratigan turned back to Lydia.

"As further assurance that there will not be any trouble from you, one of these gentlemen before you will be with you at all times. They will report back to me on whether you are stirring up trouble and suspicion."

Lydia's face fell. She knew Ratigan's plan was too good to be true. "Which one will be there?" she asked.

"They'll go on shifts. They will be in the house at all times with you, making sure that you do as you have been told and you are not giving Mayhew any problems. They will know if you give the wrong sort of information or impression to the wrong people."

"Oh. And what if I do mess up?"

Ratigan's face was expressionless, his eyes cold and empty. "You will never see Shaun Parker again."

The first musical notes of a symphony wafted out of the speaker and into the air. It was the same movement she had heard before she was called into Ratigan's office.

Her blood curdled and drained away from her face. "You… you… wouldn't kill him?"

"I haven't decided," the criminal mastermind said, holding his chin with his right hand in a thoughtful manner. "Parker may not come back from the African bush. So the only logical person to punish for your possible ineptitude would be you."

"Don't punish Shaun for my mistakes," she pleaded. "He was sent to Africa due to my actions. Please, he's already been through so much."

"And yet you don't seem to learn from those mistakes. You keep making them over and over again."

The record sang: _Lacrimosa dies illa…_

"That's because the rules keep changing," she murmured.

"_What was that, girl?"_

"I said, 'That's because I am stupid,'" she said quietly. "But I promise I will not let you down."

"Hmph. I won't hold my breath."

…_Qua resurget ex favilla…_

"If you are so uncertain of my success," she began cautiously, "then why are you entrusting this task to me?"

"As I said before, I am forced to use you. Hiring someone else would cost me time and money. Besides, you need to start earning your keep."

Lydia did not move, knowing that if she did she would show Ratigan an emotion that she did not wish him to see. "Yes, sir."

"Pack your things. Gerard will escort you to Mayhew's."

"Thank you, sir," she whispered, hoping an expression of gratitude might melt the criminal mastermind's cold heart.

"Don't screw up!" he barked.

A chill washed over her as she left the room. She went down the hallway and into her small cell of a room, where she pulled out a valise from beneath the bed. It was already packed, in preparation for a flight she could only dream about. That imagined escape from the sewers and Shaun's safe return were the only thoughts that kept her sane in the madness of Ratigan's designs.

Ratigan must have turned up the gramophone, for she could hear the sweeping chords of the symphony from even this far away. She sat down on the edge of the bed, listening to the last strains of the movement:

_Dona eis requiem, Amen._

* * *

Although the trip to Mayhew's lodgings was short, it was not short enough for Lydia. The chilly air, cold and pure, was a breath of life to Lydia, who had felt dormant and dead in her months in the sewers. But the breath was feeble, and she knew she would die again soon. The sewers would not be completely eradicated; Gerard, holding her arm in his vice-like grip, was the living presence of the sewers even here on the surface.

"Poor Parker," he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "You're going to get him killed."

Lydia yanked her arm, trying to break free from his grip. "I will not!" she hissed.

He jerked her arm, slamming her body against his. "They don't last long in the African bush against the Zulus. And even if Parker manages to survive that, you won't last long under the questioning of the Yardies and Basil of Baker Street. Basil especially. He's the only one who has ever defeated the Boss, you know."

"What about Geoffrey Dagnar?" she asked.

Gerard stopped, his hand squeezing her arm. She cried out and tried to pull away once more. The lights of nearby buildings cast his face into shadow, but his eyes glittered eerily in the dark.

"How do you know about Dagnar?" he asked, his tone dangerous.

She gulped and opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

He shook her violently. "Don't lie to me!"

"I heard you all talking about him!" she cried in a hushed voice. "You, Mikey, Ray, Frank, Bob, and Lisa. You were telling Lisa about what he did to the Stratton orphans! You all said he was more dangerous than Ratigan, that-"

"Shut your mouth!" Gerard snarled as he covered her mouth with his hand. He pressed her lips together so harshly that she tasted blood from her teeth cutting the soft tissue inside her mouth. She could only moan as he hissed, "You know better than to say his name above the surface!"

She could not nod in agreement, so she tried to show that she understood by widening her eyes. He shoved her head back with the hand that gripped her mouth, and then grabbed her arm and began to pull her along at a rapid pace. She stumbled along, the valise in her other hand banging against her knees and she tried to keep up.

Several minutes later they arrived at a slimy door to a small house in a row of similar small houses. Gerard knocked on the door directly beneath a rotted wooden number three.

"Five bob says Basil shows up tomorrow, and the Boss sends Eichmann a telegram ordering for Parker's execution," Gerard whispered in her ear. She wished she could die.

The peephole opened, and an eye peered through. In one moment the hole was closed again, and the door unlocked and opened for them.

Gerard let go of her arm as the tall man with the hunched stature came into view holding a candle. He smiled gently at Lydia; she ran into his arms and embraced him, already comforted by his presence.

"Thank you, Mr. Mayhew," she whispered. "Thank you so much."

* * *

Meg: A shorter chapter, but it's moving Lydia along a path I had been trying to discover for her ever since the second chapter. The music Ratigan plays on the gramophone is supposed to be two movements from The Requiem Mass in D Minor, composed by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The first movement described is _Lacrimosa dies illa, _while the second movement is_ Domine Jesu Christe. _The _Lacrimosa_ movement is written in ¾ time, the same as waltzes.

Consider Lydia's personal "Dance with the Devil" to be the song "Lacrymosa," Evanescence's version of the _Lacrimosa_ movement from The Requiem Mass.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

* * *

Meg: Je regrette, mes amis. I meant to update sooner, but school got in the way. In the past month I rejoined my college's newspaper, which has led to some interesting assignments. I was in the midst of a riot, attended federal court, and staked out the president of my university. On top of that I've written feature stories, finished my research grant proposal and was extremely ill for a time due to stress. I can't wait for spring break.

As a reward for your patience, here's an especially long, detailed chapter.

* * *

A single stub of a beeswax candle sputtered as the Napoleon of Crime paced his bed chamber in his nightshirt, his embroidered slippers lightly tapping the floorboards with each step, his figure casting long shadows on the opposite wall. His shoulders were hunched together, his hands slightly shaking, as he muttered to himself:

"Must've been some bad cognac… yes, that's it. Or perhaps stress. Nothing's been going right on Darby Road as of late, men starting to become mutinous….no one understands, no one understands me… why should they? I've never been like them, never had anyone… bet Basil and I would make great chums, huh. Hah, if I'm desperate… ridiculous. Go back to sleep."

His ears perked up at the chiming of a clock in the adjoining room. He stopped pacing to count out the chimes. _Din. Din. Din. Din. Din._

"Five o'clock!" he murmured. "I'll never sleep now!" His internal clock was very specific—he usually went to sleep at one or two in the morning and woke up at seven. He had gone to sleep at two and woken at half past three, and had not been able to calm down since.

He shivered at the remembrance of the terrible dream he had before waking. He had been prone to nightmares as a child, but that had vanished as he grew older. No nightmares since then, however, had been so real to his mind.

Or had reoccurred. It was the second one; the first had been several months before. That first time he had jumped out of bed, expecting to fight the nightmarish figure. No figure was there, so he chuckled the dream off. He had woken at quarter till seven that day, so he dressed and went about his day a little earlier than usual.

This time was much different. Although he could not remember what the dream's contents were, he knew that this dream had started off differently, but ended almost exactly the same as the first one. And the dream had gone further; yet he could not remember what had happened. It had all seemed so clear to him until he woke up in a cold sweat, his heart riveting in his chest like shots from a machine gun. By the time he caught his breath and splashed water from a nearby washbowl in his eyes, the images were gone from his conscious mind, but the emotions they had stirred up of terror and grief were not as easily dispelled.

He resumed pacing, his adrenaline still surging through his veins. He had been running, but was it from something or towards it? Someone had been in trouble, had he done something cruel to them, or had he tried to help? He was certain that he had known the person well, but there had also been a stranger there. Who was the stranger?

He shook his head. Nonsense. There was no point in trying to make sense out of the subconscious mind. All he wanted to do was sink into restful oblivion. But he knew the effort would be futile. Instead he resolutely began to dress.

When he had finished he looked at his pocket watch. Half past five. Lyon was due back by the early morning train coming in at six o'clock. She had telegrammed on Tuesday saying she would be West Yorkshire until today, following a lead on Dagnar. He had a sudden desire to speak with her. She rarely came down to the sewers when she was working on an extended story. He was curious to see if she had been able to pick up any information on Dagnar.

He also had an ulterior motive- to tell her of a new development with his man Nickels, a development that could potentially compromise her public image.

And perhaps, if he left Lyon's presence early enough, he could catch sight of Megana making her way to work. He had yet to see her on her normal routine, and how Basil behaved. It would be an opportunity to see the flaws in Basil's protection.

He patted on some cologne, put on a heavy overcoat that made his bulky form less noticeable and a ratty top hat and left his chambers.

He traveled through his domain, his steps echoing off the pipes making the only sound besides the occasional drip of water. It would take longer this way, but he needed some exercise to clear his head and give Lyon some time to get from the train station to her flat. Time also had to be allowed if the train came later than expected.

He would get breakfast for the two of them. Yes, that would be nice. Bread and jam for toast. And maybe some cheese crumpets. She would have tea at the flat.

He quickened his pace. He would have it all laid out for her when she got home, so she would not have to bother after her long trip. Yes, that would be a pleasant surprise.

In fifteen minutes' time he reached the surface. He ignored the guards at the entrance, and strode quickly out into the foggy morning air, damp and gray. A few mudlarks and river boatmen were out at this hour, the mudlarks to dredge the shallows for coal that fell off the barges that the boatmen drove past. He popped the collar of his coat to hide the lower portion of his face, his yellow eyes glittering eerily in the early morning light.

Twilight gradually faded to lighter shades of gray as he entered a bakery. He made his purchases with a gruff voice and one hand on the collar of his jacket, his hat tipped low over his eyes. The baker's wife at the counter did not seem curious, only weary at the start of yet another thankless workday. She bundled up the steaming hot bread and crumpets into a paper-wrapped bundle. He pocketed the jam and dropped some coins onto the counter before he took the bundle under his free arm and strode out the door.

The new day eased itself even further, the sky now almost a whitish-gray. A few more rodents came out onto the streets, most off to another day of labor.

When he turned onto Lyon's street, however, not a soul was to be seen. He passed her boarding house, his eyes casually traveling up to her garret window. No lights on, the curtains drawn tightly over. He looked at his watch. Twenty after six.

Scaling the house was easy; vines grew on the side of the house, which he, as a rat, could easily use to climb onto the roof. He tried the window, but it was secure. He had expected this; from his pocket he produced a coat hanger, which he used to lift the inside latch. All he had to do was pull open the window. The curtains softly billowed with the incoming air; he stepped inside, and latched the window again. He pushed the curtains aside to let in the predawn light, so he could see as he moved about. Artificial light would only attract unwanted attention. He then set his bundle on the table and took off the great coat.

There was movement from the direction of the bed. He slowly turned his head as a figure sat up, pulling the covers down.

"Who's there?" a familiar voice asked.

"Good morning. You're back already, I take it."

"James? What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?"

"I thought you were coming by the 6 o'clock train."

Lyon rubbed the sleepiness out of her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought we could have some breakfast and you could tell me about West Yorkshire."

"That eager to hear the dirt on Dagnar, huh?"

"Perhaps. When did you get in?"

She blinked hard. "Wednesday evening."

"But I thought you said you'd be out there until Friday."

"That was before I was nearly killed."

He examined her face in the half-light, but detected no fear in her statement. "What do you mean?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Let me explain. Let me wake up first." She paused, sniffing the air. "What smells so good?"

"Cheese crumpets, fresh out of the oven. Care for some?"

"Mmm, yes."

"Get dressed. I'll set everything out."

He went over to her stove and stirred up the coals as she got out of bed. She put a robe over herself and went over to the washbowl. Pouring some cold water into the bowl, she splashed the water over her face, and then began to scrub it with soap. After rinsing it off and toweling dry, she headed over to the dressing screen, a burgundy skirt and starched white blouse already hanging over it.

"What are you doing up so early?" she asked from behind the screen. "You're quite a night owl, at least from what I remember. Change of habits?"

"No," he said as he sliced the bread. "My habits are just about the same as when you worked for me. Just couldn't sleep last night."

"Oh, really? Wonder why that was. What time did you go to bed?"

"Around two." He threw four slices of bread on a skillet placed it over the stove.

"Did you get _any_ sleep?"

"About an hour and a half." He pulled out two dishes and two teacups and set them on the table.

She let out a loud yawn. "Pardon me. You must be exhausted."

He grunted in reply.

They remained silent for a few minutes. Ratigan finished setting the table, set a pot of water on the stove and toasted the bread. She came out from behind the screen, one hand grasping her hair in place while another hand worked to pull it up in a bun, a burgundy ribbon clenched between her teeth.

He smiled. "Leave your hair down. You look much younger that way."

"I'm twenty-four. How much younger should I look?"

He shrugged. "It just looks so much better down."

She released her grip on her hair, letting it tumble down to halfway down her back. "I didn't know the Napoleon of Crime was such a critic of coiffures," she teased.

"Watch who you're talking to, missy," he said with a mischievous grin. "I have much more dirt on you than you could ever have on me."

"Are you so sure about that?"

"Positive." He placed the toast on a plate and brought it over to the table. "I can give away your true identity to all Mousedom."

"I can point the Yard to the location of your lair in exchange for amnesty."

"I can always set a trap for them and convince them that you were involved in a plot against them. And I can track you down with my numerous contacts and make you pay for betraying me."

She sat down at the table. "Hah! I betraying you? You'd have betrayed me first!"

He sat down as well. "You attacked me after I was nice enough to bring you breakfast! I say you deserved the betrayal."

"Point well made." She took a crumpet from a plate. "Speaking of breakfast, why the lovely gesture? Don't get me wrong, but it isn't every woman who is greeted upon awakening with the sight of the infamous Professor Ratigan bringing her breakfast."

He laughed. "I've told you before, I am a man of unpredictable impulses. I couldn't sleep, I was hungry, I wanted to discuss Dagnar. I gave you some information to go on, now I want to know the fruits of your labor."

She yawned again. "It's only been a week. And he's a tricky man to get any information on."

"Being nearly killed sounds like something."

Lyon took a big bite out of her crumpet.

Ratigan folded his arms. "Come on Rose. What happened?"

She chewed slowly, deliberately, trying to gather her thoughts. The kettle shrieked on the stove, causing both of them to jump up. Lyon shook her head and motioned for him to sit down as she ran to get it. She took the kettle off the burner and poured the steaming hot liquid into a teapot.

"So I was in Wakefield, the supposed site of House and Co.," she began, having swallowed her food. "I arrived on Tuesday, in the morning. I started inquiring where their mines were at the town hall."

She brought the teapot over to the table. "I was directed towards the mines," she said as she poured the tea into Ratigan's cup. "But they were abandoned. Had been for the past fifteen years, so everyone I came into contact with was pleased to tell me."

"Are you sure?" he asked as he spread jam on his toast.

"Oh yes." She sat down. "Plenty of miners had lost their jobs when the old mines shut down. They were originally owned by an Albert Spock, but apparently he went bankrupt from some failed investments and was forced to sell the mine, or at least that's what the local gentry told me. He sold it to a Mr. Willis House. A Mr. Christopher Plumes and a Mr. Todd Veight were there when the title of the mines was signed over to him. I attempted to talk to the gentlemen in question, but Mr. Plumes would only grant me a five-minute interview, in which he said a lot of nothing about how much he admired Mr. House, but he would not specify why, or even how well he knew Mr. House. Mr. Veight, however, told me that he remembered little of Mr. House, he was only glad that Spock was no longer in control of the property, despite the fact that House doesn't seem to be doing anything with it. He thought House lived in London somewhere.

"Mr. Churman, the banker who signed the deed, is located in London. But when I talked to him yesterday he assured me that House and Co. was a very profitable mining venture, that they had been making steady profits in the mining industry. When I told him that the mines were abandoned, he suggested that I had been looking at the wrong bit of property."

"Strange," Ratigan said through a mouthful of toast. "He may be privy to Dagnar's plans."

"Or maybe he's just unaware of what's going on in Wakefield," Lyon said, taking another bite out of her cheese crumpet. "I asked around about Dagnar as well, but it didn't register with anyone. Instead I was more often than not treated to the genealogies of most of the families in the area by many of the townspeople. They all seemed to think the longer they talked to me the more likely I was to mention their names in a newspaper. That night I went to bed as the local inn with plenty of knowledge of local gossip, but little information on House and Co.

"As I lay in bed that night I wondered if the mines were abandoned because House and Co. was using them to store materials for Dagnar."

"Just what I was going to suggest," he interjected.

"Early the next morning I went to the mines with a lantern borrowed from the inn. I climbed over the wooden barrier blocking the main entrance and started down the path, determined to find at least something before I asked any more questions."

"What an incredibly irresponsible plan," Ratigan said, sounding more like a father scolding a naughty child. "You know better than that. Mines are dangerous when they are in good operating form. When they're been abandoned, who knows what sort of disrepair they've fallen into."

"I know that!" she said defensively. "I was just so frustrated. I like to actually have something to hold onto at this point in my reporting! I was desperate to have something, anything! But after about five minutes of walking I lost my nerve thinking of a cave-in. I hadn't told anyone I was there if something like that happened, and if I was caught I'd be in huge trouble for blatant trespassing. So I headed back to the surface.

"As I approached the entrance I heard what sounded like a steady thudding. I stopped and listened for awhile, but could not determine whether or not it was coming from in front of me or behind me. Then I got scared and ran towards the entrance. When I saw the daylight ahead of me, I thought I saw a black mass. As I got closer it started to move. I'm not sure if it was just a trick of the light, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight, but I could swear I heard footsteps echoing as the mass moved. I ran after it, but it vanished. Something caught my eye, however, in a wooden plank holding up the mine shaft near the entrance. The plank had been nearly chopped away. I am not sure if that had been there before I passed, but it was enough to send me bolting out of there. I tried to look for the black mass when I came out into the sunlight, but I could not find it.

"I was so spooked at the thought that someone was out for my life that I came home straightaway."

She stopped, taking another bite out of her crumpet. Ratigan shook his head.

"It was a thoughtless idea," he said in disbelief.

"You don't have to rub it in!" she snapped.

He held his hands up defensively. "I just don't want to start worrying about you. You've been able to take good care of yourself so far."

"And I will continue to do so," she said. "I value my life too much to throw it needlessly away on a news story."

"Good." He set his toast down, his appetite suddenly gone. He took a sip of his tea instead. "Dagnar must know you're on his trail."

"I wouldn't be surprised. I had trouble at the Customs House last week, and I fear that might have received due notice by him."

"What do you mean?"

She explained the discrepancy in the metal shipments and the Custom House's unwillingness to assist her. He frowned.

"It seems like nothing but dead ends," Lyon said. "My editor is not happy with my lack of progress. But there are still a few leads. Albert Spock currently resides near Hyde Park. I thought I'd talk to him, ask him about House and Co., and see if he knows anything."

Ratigan shook his head. "You are not going to pursue this any longer, Rose."

"Why? Because I thought I saw something at the mines? It could have been my imagination."

"That was no coincidence. He most likely tried to kill you then. He'll have you killed eventually if you're already making such a public affair of the entire thing!"

"I know how to shoot. I had to learn after all the enemies I made after my first interview with you was published."

"That's different—your danger comes from the law-abiding public."

"Not always-"

"And it isn't in this case either," he interrupted. "Get off his tail before it's too late. I don't want to see you hurt."

"Why?" she demanded, folding her arms and glaring at him. "What is so bad about this man anyway? What do you know about him that you're not telling me?"

"He's responsible for the Stratton murders-"

"I already know that! But that doesn't seem like some well-thought out crime, at least not comparable with some of the more brilliant schemes you've pulled off. What else?"

He sighed. "You don't want to know. Just take my word for it."

"Oh, stop it!" she exclaimed. "Your word isn't good enough. I want to know."

"I don't know much myself-"

"At least tell me what you do know."

He looked into her eyes. They were fiercely defiant, as if daring him to fight her. He was too worn out from his lack of sleep to argue any more with her. "If I tell you what I know, will you leave Dagnar alone?" he asked.

She shook her head. "James, I can't promise that. But I certainly won't let Dagnar alone if you don't tell me what his story is."

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't, then?"

"If you choose to look at it that way."

"You drive a hard bargain, Miss McGeady."

"I am a product of your nurturing and my own experiences," she said with a smile.

Ratigan sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. He then leaned in close to her and stared her straight in the eyes. "Everything I say is off the record. Anything I say cannot be an unnamed source. You will have to find it out for yourself if you chose to pursue this further. But please, for your own sake, listen to me: don't pursue it."

"Tell me why."

"Dagnar is an alias. I have never seen his face. I don't know what he looks like. I had the fortune of capturing three of his lackeys two years back, but they were minor components of his operation and knew nearly nothing. But after a little encouragement…" He paused, letting the meaning of his words sink in.

"Torture?" Lyon whispered.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You know my ways. I don't need to justify them to you."

She shook her head, but said nothing.

"All they seemed to know was what had been rumored of their own leader. One fellow claimed that Dagnar is a foreigner, but the others said that he was involved in English politics. Some speculated he was a Tory, perhaps a prime minister. William Gladstone's name was thrown out there, but I think was due to the fact that Gladstone was prime minister at the point Dagnar started up. Besides, Gladstone always was a Labour man. One of the men said that Dagnar had the strength of seven mice, and was not older than thirty.

"What I did gather for certain, and what I speculate to be true, is this: Dagnar is British, and either has been or still is a politician at the highest levels of government. The Yard's insistence on hushing up Dagnar's deeds was the biggest hint on this part. Dagnar must also be very rich in order to run his operations, either to bribe the Yard or to employ the men he does. They are apparently paid much better than my own men are."

"Where does he get his money from?"

He shrugged. "My wildest speculations point towards the Royal Treasury. I've had the royal treasurer watched for some time, but it's not easy work. That's my man, Nickels, the one who Gerard briefly mentioned to you last week. I told you he was close onto something dealing with the royal treasury that would greatly help my operations."

"Yes! Did he find a lead?"

"Well…" he hesitated. He pulled out his cigarette case and cigarette holder. "Yes, he did. A great deal of money was released to a former politician the day after your most recent interview."

"Really? Who?"

He cleared his throat. Then, lighting a cigarette already on the tip of his holder, he inhaled the smoke through the tobacco and exhaled in a long string of smoke. "Have you heard of Sir Algernon Jenners?"

She paused, racking her memory for recollection of the man. "No."

"He's a former politician. Ran the gamut of the House of Lords up until five years ago. He's also a distant cousin to the king."

"Are you suggesting that this man is Geoffrey Dagnar?"

Ratigan chuckled. "He's not as influential as he was about a decade ago, which is strange because one would think his power within the royal family would have grown with the ascension of Edward. No, Jenners does not seem to be doing much nowadays. Even if he was Dagnar, I'd find out within a few weeks. I've been watching his house for unrelated reasons."

"Why?"

He waved his smoking cigarette in a sweeping gesture. "What you need to concern yourself with, my dear, is the money Jenners received. Nickels informed me only days ago that His Majesty commissioned Jenners to have you followed."

Lyon placed a hand on her bosom. "Me?" she squeaked. "Why me?"

"He surmises you are the key to finding the nefarious Professor Ratigan!"

She bit her lower lip and gave him a look of unadulterated panic. "Then what on earth are you doing here? It's too dangerous for you to be here!"

"I am here to prevent you from coming to my lair for a few weeks at least. It would be a greater danger for you to be discovered in my lair than me in your flat, my dear."

"A note would have sufficed, James."

"And miss the pleasure of your company?" He took another puff from his cigarette. "No, this is a topic much better discussed in person. Besides, I wanted to see if you found anything on Dagnar yourself."

"Why didn't you tell me Nickels was looking for Dagnar last week?" she asked.

"I didn't want to prematurely give you information. I had sincerely counted on your getting discouraged and leaving it alone after awhile."

"Why?"

"I already told you, I don't want to see you harmed by him."

"Why do you care so much about me?" she asked. She had a playful smile about her lips, but her grayish blue eyes were serious.

"I created what you are today to some extent, Rose," he said. "I feel obligated to guide you in all your endeavours."

She laughed mockingly. "I don't believe that. The part about you creating what I am. I did that on my own."

"I had a hand in the nurturing. You admitted that yourself just several minutes ago."

"Yes, I did." She looked at her empty tea cup. "Anything else on Dagnar?"

Ratigan pulled out a cigarette case. "That's it."

"Well, I've arraigned to meet with Albert Spock today," Lyon began as he inhaled once more on his cigarette. "It would be rude of me to not show up."

"And after that?" he asked, exhaling.

"We'll see," she said slowly. "Even if Dagnar is a higher-up politician, I don't see any reason for me to be afraid of him if I don't do anything foolish."

"The entire enterprise is foolish, Rose."

She shrugged. "Then that is my error."

"Didn't you learn anything from your experience in the mine?" Ratigan said, exasperated. "I don't want to be attending your funeral next week because of a simple mistake in judgment."

"I already told you I won't risk my life for a news story!" she retorted. "Isn't that enough for you?"

"No. I don't think you're capable of judging when to stop. Individuals are notoriously bad at self-reporting."

Lyon groaned. "I am twenty-four years old. I have been in the news business for about six years. I know more about this sort of thing than you."

"Funny, I had no idea that gathering 'news' was so dangerous."

"I was in South Africa in May last year. That was a warzone."

He sighed. "You were there for two weeks, and then you were pulled off the assignment because women and children were being evacuated from the inland villages."

"I lived through that two weeks, right?"

"How close did you get to combat?"

She shook her head. "A few days…"

"'Nearly nothing' was what you said, right?" he interrupted.

"I don't remember!" she snapped. "Won't you just leave it alone? I'm not your servant anymore, you can't tell me what to do!"

He put out his cigarette on his plate. "Fine. Do as you please. I don't have the mentality for arguing on nearly no sleep." He pulled out his pocket watch. "It's nearly eight. I have an appointment in half an hour, so I really must be going."

They rose from their chairs. Lyon looked embarrassed. "Well… thank you for the breakfast. It was delicious. Do you want to take some food with you?"

"It's yours." Ratigan put on his greatcoat. "I should leave by the front door. It's too light out for me to leave by the window without it attracting attention from Jenners' men, if they're outside. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. When will it be safe to see you again?"

"I'll come to you when it's safe."

He walked towards the door.

"James, I…" He turned around. Lyon grasped the back of her chair, her head slightly bent, staring at her feet. "Don't think I don't understand why you are concerned," she said, looking up at him. "But please, have a little faith in me. I know what I'm doing."

"I hope so." He came back toward her and grasped her hand. "I'll have someone check up on you every few days or so to make sure you haven't gone missing. He'll never approach you, so don't expect to actually see him."

She threw her arms around him and embraced him. "Take care of yourself."

He lightly touched her blonde hair with one gloved hair as the other one rested on the small of her back. A few moments passed as they held the embrace. He then gently disentangled himself, gave her a curt nod, and left.

* * *

Early the next morning, as the first rays of light pierced the cloudy sky, Lyon walked among water-stained and warped crates along the riverfront, a scrap piece of paper clasped in her hand. She wore an ankle-length brown walking skirt and a beige blouse, with a brown duster over the outfit and a brown slanting hat to match. She also wore thick brown boots, prepared to tread in water and mud if need be. Her blonde hair, however, flowed down her back, carefully curled and set, only tied together by a white ribbon at the nape of her neck.

It was this rare piece of vanity that caught the gazes of labourers and boat crews as she strode purposefully past, her eyes darting from one face hardened by weather and years of earthly concerns to another.

Lyon was here due in part to Albert Spock. Her interview with Mr. Spock the previous day had been the most informative bit of information she had been able to find thus far. He was warm, jovial, and had eagerly talked to the pretty female journalist about his glory days in the coal industry. He talked briefly about Mr. House too; he was a middle-aged mouse with dark fur and a gray spot on his forehead. He had been well-dressed, quiet, and well-educated. Mr. Spock also recalled Mr. House saying that his business offices were based in Maidenhead as well as in London. She received a London address for his business, but when she investigated the matter further she found a barbershop there. The barber said that he had only been operating there for two years, that a bakery had been there before he had set up shop there. Lyon inquired further with the property's owner. The owner of the bakery could not be found, and the owner of the property around the time that House had bought the mine was dead. The current owner was the nephew of the deceased, and did not know who had rented out the property any earlier than seven years ago.

Maidenhead was Lyon's only lead. Spock did not have an address for any offices in Maidenhead, and a telegram to the town records in Maidenhead said that there was no person or business by the name of House in the area.

Lyon knew she would have to travel to Maidenhead eventually. But having just gotten back from Wakefield, she was not too eager to leave London just yet. It might be more expedient if she found a lead on those missing shipments and connected them to Maidenhead.

She stopped the first lighterman she could find. "I beg your pardon, sir," she said, tapping him on the shoulder. "Can you direct me to any boats or men that have traveled upriver to Maidenhead in the past few months?"

The lighterman's eyes traveled from the golden-brown hair to her ankles and back up again, a peculiar smile smoothing the deep lines on his face. "Well, lookee here," he whistled. "Whatcha doin' in this 'ere dump, missy?"

Lyon turned red and fought the urge to turn tail and avoid the unwanted attention. "I am looking for any boat or men who have gone to Maidenhead recently."

"And what's your name?" the man said.

"Cathy Baum."

"Cathy… what a pretty liddle name for a pretty liddle lady like yerself."

"Sir, can you help me find a boat that's been to Maidenhead?"

Four hours later in the brighter gray of mid-morning light Lyon had a list of names on a piece of scrap paper as she was rowed by the original lighterman and several others to one of the boats on her list.

In her line of work, Lyon had learned quickly that few people wish to have their words recorded and printed in a newspaper. She had also learned that men will talk to an attractive woman. So she flaunted her assets, such as her hair and her ankles, as modestly as possible. She despised the method, but it more often than not gave her the desired effect.

She boarded the boat to a few stares, most out of pure curiosity, but some glared at the entire entourage. A tall, thickset figure with a graying brown beard wearing a dirty navy blue sweater and a black wool cap stepped forward.

"Riley, what is this?" he said in a husky voice, looking at the lighterman.

"This pretty thing wants to talk to ye, Cap'n," the lighterman said, grinning.

The captain gave her the once-over, his face cold and expressionless.

She held out her hand. "Captain Porter, my name is Cathy Baum. I'm looking for my uncle, Fredrick Baum. Do you know who he is?"

"Can't say I do."

"You have taken this boat to Maidenhead recently?"

"Ever few weeks. We stop 'long the canal routes. We take barges of coal from the midlands."

"What is there in Maidenhead?"

"Not much. A little town that sprang up from inns and some public services. We don't stop there for too long, as the traffic there is not as good as in Hinley."

"Any sort of job opportunities, perhaps in coal?"

"Mining's more nor'east, miss. No, Maidenhead's not near any good coal site."

"How often do you drop off shipments there?"

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"

"I… I was just wondering what the chances were of him arriving in the past few months. My uncle disappeared several months ago, and my mother and I are worried sick about him."

The captain sized her up again, as if searching for something. He glanced around at the crew, who were standing around gaping at the female presence on board. He motioned for her to follow him as he took long strides, his boots clomping on the wooden planks.

She found herself in a small compartment that consisted of a hammock and a small chair and table covered with maps. He offered her the chair, while he leaned against the wall, arms folded. "What exactly are you looking for, miss?"

Lyon flew into her false story of searching for a lost uncle who had disappeared in Maidenhead, and how she surmised that he might have bummed a ride off of a ship making supply shipments to a mining company. "He might have thought that it was the quickest way to get to a job," she finished.

"You figure this out all by yourself?" Porter asked.

"Yes sir."

"Well, aren't you a bright one," Porter said, giving her a look of admiration. Lyon breathed a sigh of relief. He seemed to be buying the skewed logic of her story. He leaned forward, practically on top of Lyon now, begging her pardon as he searched through the mess of maps on the desk.

"There might be some information of coal shipments in my log. We don't carry coal equipment ourselves, but often carry shipments of coal. I could look back a few months, though, and see if we were carrying anything of note…"

* * *

Meg: Please let me know if Ratigan is getting out of character at all. He was giving me an incredibly hard time in this chapter—you have no idea how many times I rewrote the direction of the dialogue between him and Lyon.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

* * *

Meg: I really think someone should do a YouTube GMD video to the following songs: "Stupify" by Disturbed, "The Sickness" by Disturbed, "The Day the Covenant Fell to Earth" by A Kiss Could Be Deadly, and "Nobody Wins" by The Veronicas. Puh-lease? I would get into that stuff but that would take away time I could use to write this story. Or write angry letters to the governor of my state because he wants to close some historical sites and yet not cut his own salary.

* * *

The weeks passed. October leaves fluttered in the November winds, and Lydia found herself shivering in the bitter cold, yearning for the summer heat of South Africa just to be with Shaun. The five lackeys who Ratigan had set up in Mayhew's small flat came and went at no specific time, so the girl never knew who to expect. She might go to bed with Ray in the parlour smoking a pipe and wake up to Mikey sitting at the kitchen table waiting to be fed. Or Gerard would be there for two or three days in a row. Frank, Mikey and Bob generally left her alone, but the other two did not. Gerard's visits, however, seemed to be the most frequent and protracted of them all. She spent most of her time in the cramped three-room flat with little privacy and no where to escape the presence of her watchers. There was a small bedroom for Mayhew, a kitchen and a parlour. The pantry connected to the kitchen acted as her bedroom, but was not suitable for spending any part of the day- there was no light and it was colder than the rest of the house.

Mayhew was gone most of the day while Lydia took care of the house. She did his laundry, mended his clothes, cooked his meals and cleaned. The flat not being very big, however, Lydia found other things to do, at least in the first week. She swept the chimney, scrubbed down the grimy walls of the kitchen, cleaned and dusted every inch of the parlour and even swept out the storeroom. She was allowed to do Mayhew's shopping for him and interact with his surly neighbors to get word out that "Edward Brandt" had a granddaughter, one lackey always concealed nearby to make sure she did not stray from her appointed task. But before the first week was over Lydia had run out of things to do.

That was when the dynamic between her and the lackeys changed.

She found their taunts, their innuendos easy enough to ignore while she was occupied. When the work was done, however, she was unable to escape them. They constantly harassed her. If she opened up her mouth she often received a slap or a kick. So she tried to build up her silent defenses, to mentally shield herself from their efforts to torment her.

"How fortunate you are, Lydia," Gerard said one day as he lounged on a faded blue couch in the parlour. He stared at the ceiling, tossed a worn ball from his hands to the ceiling and caught it as it came back down. Lydia sat in a rocking chair several paces away, reading a copy of _The Aline Monthly _that Mayhew had brought for her_._ "You get to sit around and do nothing all day! How do you manage to mooch off of so many men? First there was Parker, then the Boss, and now Mayhew!"

She concentrated on the photograph of Ratigan in her magazine as if her gaze could make it combust.

"You could almost make a profession out of it," Gerard continued. "We all know what Parker was getting out of it. The Boss is more of a gentleman. Taking such payment from a leech like you is beneath him. Mayhew probably would, but I think he's too old."

"How dare you suggest such a thing!" Lydia hissed, glaring at him.

He caught the ball and hesitated for a few moments. He then slowly turned towards her. "But it is true, isn't it? You were living with Parker. There is no reason for a man that much older and not even in the same social standing to have any sort of interest in _you_. You had to do something for him to keep him attracted to you for so long."

"Maybe he loves me," she said shortly.

"Hah! Love? It's something you little rich girls think up to give meaning to your superficial little lives while you were making slippers for church bazaars and other charity drives."

"My family was not rich!"

"Too rich for Parker, right? That's what you told the Boss."

Her eyes looked as if they could shoot daggers at him. "It's love. He loves me. I love him. That's why I am here."

"Is it really love, or just an easy way out?" said Gerard.

"Easy way out of what?"

He laughed mockingly. "Admit it, you were sick of Parker. That's why you agreed to staying with the Boss."

"I didn't have a choice if I ever wanted to see Shaun again! Your _Boss_ made that quite clear when he set the options before me! I did it to be with Shaun! But you wouldn't understand love, because you don't have a heart!"

"Ooooh, that stung!" Gerard said, laughing again. "You're quite an angry, spiteful thing, aren't you?"

Lydia knew she had gotten too emotional again. She averted her eyes to the magazine and turned the page to a different article.

"Answer me."

Lydia shrugged. "I do lose my temper," she admitted, trying to keep her voice low and unemotional. "I am working on that."

"No man I know of would put up with such behavior. How in the world does Parker?"

"I can't explain it for him," she said, continuing to stare at the words on the page. Her hands were shaking. "Go ask him yourself if you're so concerned about it."

"I can't ask him, Lydia," Gerard said patronizingly. "He's at the other end of the world."

That was it. The girl's defenses shattered. "Thanks to you hypocritical, low-life bludgers and rampers with your distorted ideas of rights and obligation!" she blurted out.

From her peripheral vision she saw the albino move before she heard his boots hit the floor. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Her eyes shot over the top of the magazine. He sat up on the couch and leaned forward. She clenched the magazine and violently threw it to the floor.

"_You_ and _your lackeys _introduced Shaun to the Boss, _you _and _your lackeys _got him into debt with the Boss without him knowing it. I refuse to take blame any longer for _your _misguidance. _You_ planned to drag him into your despicable world, your low-life way of living, from the moment you met him."

Gerard chuckled, the guttural sounds low and menacing. "And why would I do that?"

"Because he is intelligent and brave and has much higher goals than you will ever have! He is everything you're not!"

It was not until the words were out of her mouth, until Gerard rose from the couch, did she realize the gravity of her words. She was on her feet before she even knew what she was doing.

"Sit back down," he commanded.

She hesitated, afraid to disobey him but just as terrified of trapping herself in a chair.

He frowned. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," he said, approaching her.

"Gerard…" she said, panicked, as she moved behind the rocking chair.

In a few quick, purposeful strides he was up to the rocking chair. "I'll teach you to speak to me like that!" he snarled, leaning over the chair and reaching out in one switch motion to grab her. Lydia was quicker; she dodged his grasp and backed against the wall. Gerard stumbled and fell into the chair, which skidded backwards and fell into Lydia as the henchman swore loudly.

She pushed the chair away from her and stepped awkwardly around the furniture in the small parlour as she escaped to the kitchen. She fell into the kitchen table and stopped. Her eyes darted from side to side, searching for something with which to defend herself. Then she heard Gerard's heavy boots pound on the floor behind her.

He grabbed her right shoulder as she turned to face him, and he threw her into the table, which skidded two paces backward as her weight collided into the heavy wood. She fell to the floor, pain shooting from her left hip.

"I'm not as good as Parker, huh Lydia? Is that what you really think?"

Lydia stared at the scuffed and warped hardwood floor, trying to gather the right words to say.

"Answer me!"

"No," she whispered.

He grabbed the back of her dress and pulled her up off the ground. He dropped her onto her feet and then grabbed her shoulders and steered her against the door of the storeroom, slamming her against the wall. A feeble whimper escaped her lips as he pinned her up against the wall with one hand and placed his other hand on her throat.

"You think you and Parker are so much better than me and my boys, don't you?"

"No!" she cried, her voice a raspy whisper.

"Liar," Gerard hissed, tightening his grip on her neck. "Remember this, you little bitch. You will never be better than me. You are beneath me. You were just a lazy little slut with Parker. Now you are nothing! You have nothing! You are a leech living off of other people. You're now going to earn your keep!"

She screamed as he fell upon her.

Then she saw Mayhew over his shoulder. The old man ripped the albino away from the girl and with astonishing dexterity he grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and began to drag him toward the back door.

Gerard took a slug at him, pounding him in the side, but Mayhew knocked him one under the chin, sending him half-flying into the door. The old man then opened the door.

"You can't do that!" Gerard exclaimed. "Boss's orders!"

With one swift movement Mayhew threw him out of the flat.

Lydia leaned against the storeroom door as Mayhew locked the back door. He then turned toward her, his eyes questioning.

Her hand went to her throat as she slowly began to rub it. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading for him to have an explanation for what had just happened.

The door rattled as Gerard screamed obscenities at them. Mayhew took her hand and led the girl into the parlour. He sat her down and cocked his head to the side.

"Do you want to know what happened?" she asked, her voice faltering. Her hands were still shaking.

The old man simply nodded.

Lydia opened her mouth, but then heard blows being rained upon the front door. She jumped up, as if ready to flee again. Mayhew touched her arm, causing her to look down at him. He held a cocked pistol, pointed at the door.

She sat back down. "I… I insulted him. He was picking on me again, and I lost my temper and called him some very bad things. That's when he attacked."

Then suddenly, silence. The sound of boots walking away.

"Is he gone for good?" she asked softly.

Mayhew shook his head.

* * *

"So let me get this straight," the Napoleon of Crime said, his cigarette holder clenched between his teeth. "You attacked the girl, and Mayhew here threw you out?"

"Yes sir," the albino said, glaring at Mayhew, hunched calmly next to him in the Boss's study.

"Why did you attack the girl again?" he asked, the holder now between his fingers.

"She is a little bitch who needs to be put in her place, professor."

"Are you her father, Gerard, that you have to put her in her place?" Ratigan asked, clearly exasperated.

"I am her guardian while she is at Mayhew's."

Ratigan raised an eyebrow. "You are also _my _employee. I need that girl in the house to get Basil off my trail. I don't need you there to watch her when there are an additional four men who can do that."

"But sir-"

"What happened today was an unnecessary scene. You are well-known in the neighbourhood. If Basil were to catch wind that you were there, he'd have the location of this lair within the next twelve hours. You are dismissed from your duties at Mayhew's."

"Sir, give me another chance!"

"ANOTHER CHANCE AT WHAT?" Ratigan bellowed. "Gerard, what you did today was unprofessional, emotional, immature and unnecessary! It risked years of my life that I have spent building up this empire of mine! I will not let you tear down my life's work just so you can fulfill your skewed sexual desires!"

"_What?"_ Gerard exclaimed. "I wouldn't touch that leech!"

"You just tried to today!" Ratigan barked. "Your judgment is too impaired to spend any time with the girl. You're on Darby Road until further notice!"

"You can't-"

"I CAN AND I WILL! NOW GET OUT!"

Gerard pounded his hand down on Ratigan's desk and stormed away, sharply bumping into Mayhew as he slammed the door shut behind him.

The rat breathed in through cigarette, but the flame within the tobacco had gone out.

"They were more obedient when I had Felicia," he muttered. He took a match and lit the cigarette again. He took a long puff and then exhaled, letting the nicotine soothe his anger.

"Thank you, Mayhew," the criminal mastermind sighed. "I will evaluate the other four and determine whether the girl will remain unmolested in their charge. If not then I will find others to replace them."

The old man gave a sideways bow and limped off as the four clones walked in.

Mayhew placed a tattered old hat on his head. He then limped off towards the pipes that led to the surface.

"You picked the wrong man to mess with," a low voice said from the shadows.

Mayhew slowly turned around, pistol ready. Gerard stepped out from the shadows. He looked at the gun in the hunched man's hands and laughed.

"Fine, want to fight over a girl? She's yours for now. Do whatever you wish with her, old man. But as soon as she fools that ass of a detective, as soon as she is back in the sewers, I will bring her so low even the dirt will loath to touch her skirts. You cannot protect her then!"

With that he melted back into the shadows.

* * *

Meg: A "bludger" is Victorian slang for "violent criminal or thief" while a "ramper" is Victorian slang for "hoodlum." And yes, Gerard is a huge ass.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

* * *

Meg: More songs for YouTube videos: "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns 'n Roses, "Stand My Ground" by Within Temptation, "The Escapist" by Nightwish, and "Labyrinth" by OOMPH! Bonus points if anyone can make a good GMD video to an MCR song from their CD The Black Parade. Hint hint: Meg wants YouTube videos to these songs!

* * *

My days working for Sir Jenners were a mix of interesting and monotonous. It was sometimes boring copying printing information. The antiquity of the manuscripts in Jenners' library, however, astounded me, and I found myself reading accounts of shipwrecks and the subsequent behavior of English sailors on Juan Fernandes Island or Sir William Temples' _Of Popular Discontents_ during lunch breaks. I was fast and efficient, and fully rewarded with an appreciative smile from Jenners or a few words of praise whenever he saw how quickly I was progressing. It made me feel proud of myself, as if I had accomplished something noteworthy that would be so useful later on.

I did not see Jenners often. He was a busy man, constantly running in and out of the mansion. But he always made sure to see me at least for a few minutes each day, just to check up on my work and chat. On several days when he was less occupied with business he even invited me to have lunch with him. Sometimes he asked about Lyon, other times he asked about details of my life. He seemed particularly interested in hearing about Basil of Baker Street and his methods of observation and deduction.

I asked him about his life as well. He was an accomplished man, having been involved with politics for 15 years before retiring at the early age of 45. When I asked him what he did now, though, he said that he was looking into business. He had his eye on some industrial ventures and media outlets.

One day, however, he stepped into the library and, after the usually exchange of pleasantries, said, "Megana, may I ask you about a personal matter?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I wanted to ask you about your history with Professor Ratigan."

"Really?" I asked, confused. "Why?"

He cleared his throat. "I do apologize for being so forward about this topic," he began. "I am sort of on a dead end with my investigation of Miss Lyon. Perhaps I am just grasping at a wisp of wind here, but I would like to know more about the professor."

I felt a strong emotion well up in my throat, which took all of my efforts to choke back. "It's not an easy topic to discuss," I said softly. "He murdered my husband."

Jenners nodded understandingly. "Then we will leave it alone. I do apologize for asking."

* * *

Later that evening I sat in front of the fire with a cup of tea, watching Basil and Dawson pour over a map of the East End docks on the wall for the hundredth time since the discovery of the first love letter. Another one had been found on yet another Seven Plagues ship one week earlier, and had only been given to Basil yesterday evening. Having spent the past day examining the letter, Basil planned on leaving it at the docks tomorrow with the other mail to see who would pick it up.

For now they had all of the Edward Brandts they knew of marked out on the East End map with darts.

"Him and him," Basil said, pointing to two dots. "They're already suspicious, and have some petty criminal activity on their records. If it goes to them then we better stake out the place."

"It looks like rain," I said.

Basil waved his hand at me to indicate that he did not want to hear it. "When the man leaves I'll follow him and you'll search the house for the letter. But do knock on the door first. They live alone, so there shouldn't be anyone there, but we can't take chances."

"Are we using the same disguises?" Dawson asked.

"No. I have new ones set aside specifically because of the two troublemakers. Unless we ascertain that Lydia does, indeed, exist at the destination written on the letter, then we should request to speak to her as ourselves. It may persuade her to tell us what we wish to know if she's aware that some form of authority is interested in her letter."

"Won't we frighten her that way?"

"I don't think so," Basil said. "If she is innocent then she should have nothing to hide."

"I'd be afraid, even if I was innocent," I said.

Basil shook his head and went back to the map. "If the letter goes where we have already been then we should wait until the occupants are gone, or asleep, and then search for the letter and see if we can find any evidence of Lydia or the Seven Plagues."

"You mean we should break in?" Dawson asked, aghast at the idea.

"Basil!" I said.

"We've done it before," he said, nonplussed.

"But that was when you knew something was definitely tied to Ratigan or some other criminal," Dawson said. "This is a breach of privacy beyond reading someone's private letters!"

"My good doctor, Shaun probably doesn't even exist, which means that Lydia doesn't either."

"How can you be so sure?" he demanded.

"I have strong reason to believe two different people wrote the current letter and the first ones that were found," Basil said. "The first ones are written with charcoal sticks, while the current one is written with a charcoal pencil. The 't's are crossed with a slight upward slant, while the other letters are more straight. The paper is different, but that is not significant because all of the other letters were written on different paper- scrap paper, clean paper, the backs of advertisements. This one, however, was not as saturated with sodium chloride."

"But Basil, you only took a small sample from the letter to do that test," Dawson said. "You destroyed the other letters to do that test. You yourself said the experiment for sodium chloride might not work with such a small sample."

"It is just one more thing that doesn't fit," Basil said. "The differences are slight, but I am convinced there are two different letter writers. Two different writing implements, two different hands, perhaps two different men, lackeys of Ratigan no doubt. Lydia and Ratigan may be one and the same."

"You can't be sure of that, Basil," I said.

"The only way to know for sure is the find the destination of the letters."

* * *

For Renée Lyon, the past few weeks had been gradually more fruitful than her first week of investigating the mysterious Geoffrey Dagnar.

In between writing a few shorter stories for _The Daily Press _to make up for her lack of articles in November's _Aline Monthly,_ she had found the destination of the missing shipments: Maidenhead. It had taken several weeks interviewing men at the docks, but most had eagerly helped the blonde-haired woman find the information, especially Captain Porter. He had taken on one of the shipments, and several other small-time riverboat captains had also been found who had been secretly paid under the table to make the shipments, with the names of Customs House officers who had looked the other way. All of this, however, she learned after many conversations where she gained his trust and slowly dragged the information out of him, and received access to his captain's log.

Porter even took her up to Maidenhead, indicating where he had dropped off the shipments on the days that 'Cathy Baum' had thought her uncle had left London. The goods had been taken to a private dock by the river at the base of an estate. Lyon had gotten off at Maidenhead as Porter went further up river, taking a shipment to Reading.

She searched for House and Co. there. No headquarters. No one there had even heard of the company. So she tried to find the owner of the estate, but it appears that the place once belonged to the Locklears, a blueblood family who had died out years ago. The building had been abandoned since the last of the descendents passed. But no one could seem to tell her who currently owned the building.

Lyon caught a ride back to London on Captain Porter's boat. It had been nearly four weeks since she had received her information from Gerard. She had to meet with her editor to convince him that it was worth keeping her on the story for an extended period of time. Now that she had found where the missing shipments had gone as well as the underhand dealings by the Customs House, she had enough to write a story, even if not on Dagnar. She also planned on going back to Maidenhead with some of Ratigan's lackeys if he would allow it. It would be unsafe for her to investigate the abandoned estate by herself.

She knew she would have to wait, however, until the criminal mastermind came to her. She had not noticed anyone following her in the three weeks since Ratigan had warned her of the threat, not even the watchman that he claimed he would set over her. She had no idea if it was safe to see him yet, if Jenners had given up on tracking her activities.

Once back in London she headed straight for the offices of _The Daily Press. _She saw Eddie at his desk in front of Gault's office, chewing on a hunk of cheese as he read the classified ads of the paper.

"Hello Eddie," she said, smiling at him.

"Renée!" He swallowed the food in his mouth in one large gulp and then grinned back. "It's been so long!"

She nodded. "I know. How are you?"

"Eh, okay," he said, pointing to the classifieds. "Looking for possible job openings."

"Oh? Don't like it here?" she asked, surprised. Eddie seemed like an essential part of the paper, even if he did not write any of the stories or edit the publications.

"Nah. I like it here. I just like to see what my options are. You know, in case the paper ever decides to downsize or something. _Aline _would probably be the first to go."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well. On that cheery note, is Larry in?"

"Yes, but you can't see him. He said not to be disturbed." Eddie motioned for Lyon to come closer, as if he was about to share a secret. When her ear was nearly at his nose he murmured. "He's meeting with a cousin of the king!"

Lyon gave a start. "Who?" she asked, fearing she already knew the answer.

"Sir Algernon Jenners!"

"_What?"_ She stood up straight, suddenly beginning to perspire. "Why is _he _here?"

"You know him?" Eddie asked, surprised at her reaction.

She shook her head. "No."

"You seem upset."

"I am not!" she exclaimed.

Eddie cocked his head and stared at her, baffled.

Lyon shook her head. "When is this meeting going to be done?"

The secretary shrugged. "Dunno. They've been in there for two hours now."

"I'll just come back later," Lyon said quickly, turning on her heel.

Just then the doors of Gault's office opened, and she turned around, surprised, as four men came out. The first was William Campbell, the lawyer for _The Daily Press_ and all its associated publications such as the _Aline Monthly_. Lyon knew the white-furred mouse with the thick glasses well from the various legal implications her interviews with Ratigan had caused for _Aline_. The second was the current owner of the paper, Randolph Brenkus, a gray-colored mouse of 60 who had inherited the paper from his childless brother several years ago. The third was a tall rat with grayish-black fur and a thin black goatee on his chin. When Lyon recognized the last to leave the office as the bulky, tan-colored, middle aged Lawrence Gault, she surmised that the third individual was Jenners.

The rat himself stopped when he saw her. His eyes traveled down past her dark blue hat to her loose blonde hair tied at the nape of her neck, down past her blue jacket, white blouse and blue skirt to her brown boots and back up again. He then allowed himself a small smile, as if satisfied with finally answering a mystery.

The look gave her chills. She turned to the first two men and shook their hands, exchanging formalities.

"Renée!" Gault boomed, coming up and roughly shaking her hand. "Where've you been for the last week?"

"Out looking up leads on that long-term assignment I'm doing," Lyon said.

"What is the assignment?" the rat asked her.

"I beg your pardon, I don't believe we've met," she responded with a smile, holding out her hand. "I am Renée Lyon."

"Sir Algernon Jenners." His voice was flat, and he did not extend his hand to meet her handshake.

She left her hand in the air long enough to make it awkward. She slowly put her hand down. "What brings you here, Sir Jenners?" she asked.

"What is the assignment?" he repeated.

"A piece on a businessman," she replied.

"Renée here is one of the best reporters here when it comes to high profile pieces," Gault jumped in, putting an arm around her waist. "She's hunting down a man who might be behind some shady business deals. What's his name again, Renée?"

Lyon's jaw almost dropped open. She was surprised Gault chose her current story with which to praise her journalism efforts, since he seemed to abhor the idea all together.

"Geoffrey Dagnar," she said.

Jenners raised an eyebrow. "Never heard of him. What business is he in?"

"Coal mining."

"Renée here is the one who managed to get an interview with Professor Ratigan not once but _three times!_" Gault continued.

Campbell let out a little laugh. "That reminds me, Miss Lyon. You're in trouble again for your last article. The Yard is suing."

She noticed Brenkus jab the lawyer in the ribs, and then shot an uneasy glance at Jenners.

"I wouldn't be surprised," the rat said, narrowing his eyes at Lyon. "Allowing a reporter to associate with a public enemy is bad form indeed. Did you have a say in whether she did those stories, Mr. Brenkus?"

The older mouse twisted his hat nervously in his hands. "Well… a newspaper is a business Sir Jenners, and we've got to keep the public interested. The devil appears to take a liking to Miss Lyon, so it's an opportunity that comes once in a lifetime-"

"Not once, Mr. Brenkus," Jenners interrupted, still looking at Lyon. "Thrice in a lifetime thus far, am I right?"

"Well, yes. But-"

"And you allowed this illegal activity to occur?"

"It's public _interest_, Sir Jenners-"

"Cheap thrills for a paper, Mr. Brenkus? Just like this coal-mining fellow she is reporting on now?"

"Oh, I don't know of _every _story that our staff works on," Brenkus said, pulling at his collar. "That's Larry's affair; she's under his jurisdiction."

"We're hoping it will be a good story," Gault cut in. "You know, corruption and… and… what else, Renée?"

"And illegal shipping," Lyon said. "I have found a recent lead on that. I-"

"Mr. Brenkus, I am surprised you don't know what is being put into your own publications," Jenners cut in, turning to Brenkus. "Are all newspapers run like that?"

Brenkus shrugged. "I was never much of a media man myself," he said. "It was sort of left on my hands."

The rat smiled. "Perfectly understandable," he said. "It was a pleasure working with you gentlemen," he said, shaking their hands. "You are more than welcome to come by my house any time. And Mr. Gault," he said, holding firmly to the editor's hand. "I will see you tomorrow morning."

He left with Campbell and Brenkus.

Lyon looked wildly at Gault. "What was _he_ doing here?" she exclaimed.

Gault cocked his head and studied her face, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind her expression. "Discussing business."

"What sort of business?"

"Private. About the paper."

"What was it?"

"I can't tell you," he shrugged. "Patience, Renée. You'll find out soon enough."

"Did he say anything about me?" she asked.

The editor raised an eyebrow. "No. Why would he? I didn't even think he knew you."

"_He's having me followed!"_

Eddie's head shot up at her words. Gault burst out laughing. "Now why would he do that?"

"Because the government thinks I am a public enemy for interviewing Professor Ratigan!" she exclaimed. "He wants to see if I am fraternizing with public enemy number one!"

"And how did you find that out?" he asked.

"I have my sources, and they're reliable too!" she retorted.

Gault chuckled. "I wouldn't worry about Jenners. His visit was purely business."

"What sort of business?"

"I can't tell you now, as it hasn't been finalized yet. You'll find out soon."

She sighed. "All right. Now I have some updates on my story that I need to tell you about."

"Good! Let's step into my office then," he said, motioning for her to go before him. "Oh, and before I forget, there's a staff meeting tomorrow morning at 8:30. Everyone from the _Press_ and the magazines have to be there."

"All right," Lyon said once again, walking into the editor's office to plan her next moves on Dagnar.

* * *

The staffs of _The Daily Press_ and its two auxiliary publications, _The Aline Monthly _and _Billings' Gentlemen Weekly _sat around and chatted with each other, a low murmur spreading throughout the room. Randolph Brenkus, William Campbell, and the editors sat at chairs by the windows on the west side of the floor, some talking, some sitting there tensely. It was 8:38, and Brenkus looked agitated. He rocked back and forth on his chair, causing the floorboards beneath him to creak with the motions.

"Everyone important seems to be here," Lyon said to Eddie and John Priestly, a _Daily Press_ reporter and a close acquaintance, as they leaned against Priestly's desk. "Why isn't the meeting starting?"

"Miles and Carter are missing," John pointed out

"Are they important?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Miles is still recovering from that cat attack. Carter is always late."

"Anyone know what the meeting is about?" Eddie asked.

"Maybe it's to yell at us because of Monday's headline," John offered.

"What about Monday's headline?" Lyon asked. "I was in Maidenhead then."

John sniggered. "You should've seen it, Renée. It was supposed to say: 'Work Riots in Liverpool Cause Civil Unrest.' Some moron in copyediting replaced the word 'riot' for 'idiot!'"

Lyon giggled. "That is pretty bad."

"It was pretty embarrassing. Baldwin chewed us all out for that one that day, and we got a string of angry letters from workers across the city."

"Why would they reprimand the entire staff, though?" Eddie asked. "This is a big meeting for a mistake that one man made?"

"Aw, Baldwin's probably still wound up about it," John said.

The door to the stairwell opened, and in strode a tall, well-dressed figure with a worm-like tail and a smart, pressed suit.

Lyon gasped. "What is Jenners doing here, now?"

Eddie peered at the man as he shook the hands of all the editors. Jenners then took an empty chair next to Brenkus. "No idea," he said.

"Settle down everyone!" Josiah Baldwin, the senior editor of _The Daily Press_, hollered to the crowd in the newsroom. "Let's get started."

The reporters and staff shuffled away from each other, sitting on desks, leaning against the walls or sitting on the floors. The murmur eventually died down as the bodies settled into place.

"All yours," Baldwin said to Brenkus.

The man stood up from his chair. "Good morning. I am glad to see that you all made it this morning, especially those not on the clock. I have called you all here to talk to you about the status of _The Daily Press._"

The murmur rose again. It was common knowledge that _The Daily Press_ was losing money, which led to talks about the paper shutting down for good in the face of competition from _The London Free-Press _and other city papers.

"I know there have been some rumours about us shutting down due to lack of funds," Brenkus said. "When I inherited this paper from my brother John, now deceased, six years ago, I did not have a lot of experience in the newspaper business. I had been involved in the lace industry."

"And he had failed miserably because he's an incompetent businessman," John muttered to Lyon and Eddie. The two stifled their laughter as Baldwin shot them a glare.

"It was not an easy transition for me," Brenkus continued. "There were many difficulties. However, we have grown much in six years, and are now, as we were in my brother's day, London's number one quality news source."

"Suuuure," John said sarcastically under his breath. "Brenkus is just trying to patronize us."

"I am getting up in years, as I'm sure you've all noticed," said the owner, chuckling. No one laughed. He turned the laugh into a cough in a vain attempt to hide the failure of his joke. "Due to my health, I have decided to retire."

The murmur increased. Lyon heard some reporters whisper "Yes!" while others said, "Is the paper doing _that_ poorly?"

"This was a necessary step for my health and for the healthy continuation of the Brenkus family legacy," Brenkus said.

"So what's going to happen to us?" one reporter called out.

"Let me finish, let me finish!" Brenkus said. "I have made sure that _The Daily Press_ and her sister publications are in the best of hands. Just last night Mr. Campbell and I signed off ownership of the paper and granted it to former politician and benefactor, Sir Algernon Jenners!"

Lyon felt the blood drain from her face as Jenners stood up and nodded. The room began to clap, not out of gladness, but out of an attempt to be polite.

Eddie nudged her. She glanced at him. He looked as frightened for her as she felt.

* * *

Meg: In case anyone is interested, I have been reediting my previous stories, which has forced me to look at some of my writing from four years ago. A humbling, yet necessary lesson. "Riddle Me This" is not as bad a story as I thought. Although it can be pretty melodramatic, it was kind of funny at parts. I also have decided that I don't dislike Meg Sarentis anymore, so I will try to write more parts with her in them in the upcoming chapters.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

* * *

Meg: I know, it's been over one month again. The good news is spring finals are over and I have received a research grant for this summer which pays for me to do research without having to work a summer job. So in between writing a long thesis paper on civil religion in Nazi Germany and modern Israel, I will have time to make a better effort in keeping up with this story.

* * *

A light drizzle poured from the sky, covering wooden crates, rotted ropes and broken bits of buoys in a light mist. Two men in dark, tattered jackets with wool caps pulled over their eyes hunched underneath a canvas tarp, peering out at the nearly abandoned docks.

The shorter, stouter of the two shivered a bit. He pulled out a pocketwatch.

"Time to get Meg soon," he murmured.

"Oh?" his partner replied, his eyes peeled on the door of a wooden shack patched together with bits of warped and mismatched wood.

"Do you want to get her, or should I?"

"Go ahead, doctor," the great mouse detective said.

"I've escorted her home every single day for one week," Dawson said. "She may want you to walk her home this evening."

"She knows I'm on a case."

Dawson shook his head. "How long are you going to be this time?"

"As long as possible."

The doctor sighed. It was one week since the letter had been returned to the wooden shack that they were staking out, the unofficial post office for packages and mail for dockworkers, sailors or their families. Basil had posted a young boy in the shack to watch the letter and alert the two mice when it was picked up.

"Let's face it Basil. It appears that the owner of the letter is either not expecting it or has simply forgotten about it. If Ratigan is the recipient he would have made an effort to get it by now."

"Which makes me believe it is Ratigan all the more," the detective replied, his voice low but excited. "He may know we are watching it."

"How is that helpful? He may never pick it up."

"Sometimes that it the best evidence we can gather," said Basil.

"Aren't you worried that you're missing a more compelling case while we're off following a trail that may not even lead to Ratigan?"

"No."

"Or that your sweetheart hasn't seen you in a week and is starting to feel neglected."

"Come now, Dawson," Basil said, his gaze still riveted to the tiny shack, his face void of emotion. "This is more important than our relationship."

"Basil! Do you hear yourself?" the doctor asked, astounded.

"Sacrifices must be made."

"Really?"

"She sacrificed our working relationship to work for Sir Arrogant Jenners over there near Hyde Park. I'm doing this to make sure Ratigan never bothers her again."

"Does Meg know this?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

Dawson looked askance at his friend. "You mean to say you haven't discussed your current disinterest in her in this way?"

"It doesn't need to be explained. She knows."

Dawson puffed up his chest and shot his friend an exasperated look. "I have news for you, Basil of Baker Street. She doesn't know. She thinks you're either angry with her, dislike her, or don't want to be bothered with her now that she no longer works for you."

Basil glanced at his friend. "How would you know?"

"For a world-renowned master of deduction and observation you are quite blind sometimes," Dawson said, his voice edged with annoyance. "She's started complaining to me on those walks back to Baker Street. When you are at home you ignore her comments, her suggestions, and sometime even her questions; anything that doesn't relate to the case."

"I do no-"

"All the while this may not even be a case!"

The two fell silent, the rustle of the water droplets filling the void. Dawson glanced at his friend from time to time, watching for any visible effect from his words. The detective, however, remained stony-faced.

Dawson pulled out his watch again. "Time to go. Do you…" he turned toward Basil. "Do you want to get her? I can wait for the letter."

Basil shook his head. "I need to pay Aaron when he is done anyway."

"I can do that."

"That's quiet all right, doctor."

Dawson closed his eyes. "Fine. Don't catch your death of cold out here." He gently disentangled himself from the tarp. He walked away slowly, allowing the blood to flow back through his legs after being crouched for so long. The icy rain poured relentlessly on his damp clothes.

He turned around when he was past the shack and looked for Basil. But all he saw were crates glistening with fallen drops of water, and a few pieces of canvas slung over the wooden boxes.

* * *

It was one of those days where the world seemed to be against me. I had slept poorly the night before and gotten to work late, drenched with the frigid November rains and less than thrilled about another day of recording information for Sir Jenners. I had nearly finished one full wall of books in the month since I had started working for him. The work was fulfilling in the way that keeping busy often is, but it had its moments of redundancy.

So I moved lethargically today, taking longer breaks, often catching myself reading several pages of a particularly interesting volume, or just sitting back in my chair at the desk and staring into the flames in the fireplace. Only the entrance of Sir Jenners every so often fluttering into the office snapped me out of my daydreams, causing me to bend over my work and pretend to read the flowery script of a seventeenth century title page.

Sir Jenners spoke to me briefly a few times throughout the day, mostly apologizing for constantly coming and going, that he had a lot to do with the newspaper he had just purchased. I later found out from one of the maids that he was meeting with the staff members of _The Daily Press_ in the dining room downstairs.

At 4:12 p.m. I came across an issue with one of the pamphlets- there was a different publication located on it than another copy of the same pamphlet had yielded, even though the two were printed in the same year. I wondered if he wanted to place that in the "keep" or "donate" piles, as he was donating any multiple copies of his pamphlets or books. I decided to stretch my legs a bit and ask him.

I headed down the winding stairs, the rain sounding like uncooked rice thrown against the windows rather than water. I hesitated before the doors of the dining room, uncertain whether he was meeting with someone. I held my ear up to the door. No movement. I made a short, quick rap on the door.

"Come in!" he said sharply.

I opened the door. Sir Jenners was sitting at the head of the mahogany table at the far end of the room, a few papers strewn about. "Sir Jenners, I am so sorry to disturb you, but there is a problem with one of these pamphlets and I don't know what you want to do."

He smiled. "Megana! Come in, come in! What seems to be the problem?"

I heard the musical ring of the doorbell as I approached Sir Jenners. "This will only take a minute."

We were bent over the pamphlet, Sir Jenners deep in thought about the problem, when one of the maids, a pretty girl with dark, curly hair and rosy cheeks, entered the room. "Sir, a Miss Renée Lyon is here to see you."

"Ah." Sir Jenners looked up from the pamphlet. "One minute, Eliza." He turned to me. "I'll think about it and let you know what I plan to do tomorrow. Just leave it on my desk."

"All right. May I ask-"

"Show Miss Lyon in," he said to the young maid.

I closed my mouth and nodded. I quickly walked out of the room, too afraid to ask what the journalist was doing in Jenners' house, but burning with a desire to know.

I left the room, bumping into Lyon just outside the door.

"Miss Sarentis?" she asked, looking curiously at me. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Mrs. Havers," I said shortly. "And I happen to work here."

"Work? Here? What sort of work?"

"A project for Sir Jenners that I must get back to," I said.

Then, suddenly, I saw her give an expression that looked like surprise and understanding at the same time. The color left her face. She wavered, as if about to faint.

"Really?" she moaned.

"Miss, are you all right?" Eliza asked.

Lyon slapped herself, the report ringing throughout the hall and causing Eliza and I to jump at her show of violence. With that the blood rushed back to her face. "Fine!" she cried. "Perfectly fine! Perhaps I'll see you again soon, Miss Sarentis."

"Mrs. Havers!" I snapped.

"Oh, I do beg your par-" she began.

I turned on my heel and began to walk away.

"-don," she finished. She sighed, and turned toward the door. She took a deep breath before entering.

I stopped and turned back to Eliza as the door closed. "What is she doing here?" I asked.

The maid shrugged. "She's never been here as to my knowin'. Why?"

"She's the reporter who's interviewed Professor Ratigan three times!" I hissed.

Eliza's mouth dropped open. "Really?"

"Yes!"

She looked around, as if making sure there was no one around. Then she went over to the door and stuck her ear next to the door. She motioned for me to come over.

I hesitated, wondering how much trouble I could get into if Victor, the butler, came across us. I listened for movement, but all I heard was the murmuring of a voice from the dining room. So I took a place next to Eliza and leaned against the door, my ear pressing near the crack.

A minute passed, and no noise came from within. I wondered if the door was too thick. Then I heard Jenners' voice, cold and emotionless, say: "Don't just stand there. Sit."

"You wanted to see me?" I heard Lyon's voice say as a chair scraped across the marble floor. "I received this note-"

"As have all of the employees for _The Daily Press_ and her sister publications. I've called each of them here."

"Yes, I have-"

"The newspaper is not doing well," Jenners said. "Brenkus did not manage the paper well at all. In order to continue operating the paper I will be cutting costs in other areas. I am assessing what is absolutely necessary and what is not. Tell me, how long have you worked at _Aline_?"

"About three years now."

"Who hired you?"

"Larry Gault."

"Why?" Jenners' tone was one of suspicion.

"Well, I don't know what exactly Larry was thinking, but I can only assume he thought I was a good writer."

"From now on you will give _Mr. Gault_ the respect he deserves and refer to him by his proper title and surname."

There was an awkward pause.

"Have you ever written for _The Daily Press _before?" Jenners continued.

"I often cover stories when other reporters are too busy to do it. My most recent story for the newspaper was the final days of Henry Lanz's murder trial. _The Press_ is a daily and _Aline_ is a monthly, after all, so sometimes I have time in between working on my other stories for _Aline._"

"Are murder trials your normal assignments for _The Daily Press_?"

"No. Usually they're public meetings on education or housing issues with various community groups. Once in awhile I cover an accident or police incident. It's usually just some story Baldwin absolutely needs someone to cover and I have time for, so I don't consistently write about one particular subject."

"What are your normal assignments for _Aline_?"

"Profile pieces on extraordinary people and extensive pieces on public issues."

"What sort of public issues?"

"Temperance is one that seems to come up a lot. Last year it was the Boer War. I actually went to South Africa for a few weeks for that story."

"South Africa? Who's idea was that?"

"It was mine, but Larry- uh, I mean, Mr. Gault, supported it as well."

"Why?"

"You'll have to ask him," she said, as if she didn't really know either.

"Don't give me that," Jenners snapped. "I am asking you."

"I…I think he thought that readership would go up if _Aline_ had a piece about the War in there."

"Did the readership go up?"

"I don't believe so, no."

"So your suggestion was an unnecessary waste of time and expense for the paper?" he asked.

"It didn't disappoint the current readership."

"Answer the question!"

"I don't think it was a waste."

"I didn't ask what you thought!" Jenners barked. "I asked if it was a waste of time and expense for the paper!"

"No," said Lyon, her voice wavering slightly, but perceptibly. "I covered good stories- the evacuation of the inland towns, the British troops on their way to fight, the logistical issues with supplying the troops, some information on what the farmers were doing with their cattle. They were very well received."

The clean flap of turning pages reached my ears, and then the sound of a thin paperback book tossed onto a table. "So explain to me how you came up with the idea to interview the infamous Professor Ratigan."

"Everyone in the kingdom thought he had died when he fell off Big Ben after the Diamond Jubilee six years ago. Needless to say, his attempt to take over the Danish throne terrified all of Europe, if not the world. Most reporters were trying to find some way to contact him. I decided to do it through the newspapers."

"Why did you think he'd even be reading the newspapers?"

"I had read, in past articles written by him… Stanley Crowe, he's the crime beat reporter for _The London Free-Press_, he was also the crime beat reporter then, and did a series of articles after the Diamond Jubilee on Professor Ratigan's hideout… he mentioned in his articles that there were newspapers from the three major London newspapers at the time just piled up in the hideout. Since most of his henchmen were working-class criminals with little to no formal education, I surmised that the professor was the prolific news reader."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four, sir."

"When did you start reporting?"

"Well, I wrote a few minor pieces on female fashions and charity bazaars when I worked as a secretary for _The London Free-Press_. My serious journalism work began when Lar-, erm, Mr. Gault, hired me at _Aline._ Even then it took me nearly two months until I was allowed to do something more than fashion stories."

"How soon after you began your work at _Aline_ did you write your article about Ratigan?"

"Nearly four months later."

"So you put an advertisement asking Ratigan for an interview?"

"Yes, sir."

"And he responded?"

"Via another advertisement, yes."

"And Mr. Gault let you, with your lack of any journalism skills, interview one of the most dangerous public figures of our time?"

"No. He tried to send another reporter to the rendez-vous point, but Professor Ratigan did not show up. He send Mr. Gault a note instructing him to allow me to conduct the interview."

"Let me get this straight," Jenners said, as if in disbelief. "I'm supposed to believe that Ratigan chose _you, _a woman and an unskilled journalist, to interview him?"

"Perhaps he thought I was safer…" Lyon began, starting to become defensive, "…because I am a woman and was an unskilled reporter. I may have been less likely to pick up clues as to his location and give it to the police."

"That would be a reasonable explanation except there was a photographer with you for each interview."

"Professor Ratigan requested that Mathew Bradley accompany me on each interview. He's the best photographer associated with the paper." She did not add that Ratigan had requested Bradley each time to deter suspicion from the journalist.

"Mr. Bradley says that you received all of the instructions. Why is that?"

"I don't know. Perhaps because I was the one who made the first contact."

A chair was pushed away from the table. Then carefully calculated footsteps echoed off the floor.

"Do you know why I bought _The Daily Press, _Miss Lyon?" Jenners asked.

"Brenkus was looking to sell?"

His laughter was cold and mocking. "There's a little more to it than that. I am a patriotic man, Miss Lyon. I take great pride in this city, this country, and this great empire."

The footsteps appeared to be approaching the door at which Eliza and I were eavesdropping. I shot her a fearful look. She appeared to take no notice.

"Ever since that loon Randolph Brenkus took over, _The Daily Press _has printed nothing but sensational stories, cheap thrills, pure falsehoods to sell a paper."

"You're referring to James Scully? Baldwin fired him as soon as it was revealed that he had been fabricating facts and people."

"It's not just Scully. _The Daily Press_, _Billings', _and _Aline_ have all become subpar publications more intent on publishing stories to attract a low-class, popular readership rather than printing articles meant to be savored and valued by future generations as a mark of our country's greatness."

The footsteps were moving away from the door now.

"I don't think a popular readership is bad at all," Lyon said. "It's a sign of the times. Literacy among the lower classes has gone up greatly in the past twenty years, so in order to sell newspapers we may have to market-"

"Your opinion is insignificant, Miss Lyon," he abruptly cut in. "You know nothing of the newspaper business."

"I beg your pardon," Lyon said with indignation. "I _work _in it!"

There was another moment of silence, a long pause. Then Jenners' low, deep tone reverberated, only the notes reaching my ears.

"What did he say?" Eliza asked.

"Didn't hear it," I said.

"My goal is to bring back the good old-fashioned standards of _The Daily Press_," Jenners continued. "Nothing sensational. Just plain, solid news. I am getting rid of any writers who are more concerned about the quantity of the readership than the quality. No more ridiculous stories about the Royal Navy sailor's widow who doesn't receive his pension to support her family. No more stories about how low prices are affecting homeless shelters and soup kitchens. And no more stories about low-life criminal ruffians like James Ratigan!"

I heard Lyon give a sort of angry huff.

"It's my paper, Miss Lyon. I don't abide by the ordinary and insignificant."

"Then what are we to write about? Boring meetings, boring trials, and boring people who just happen to hold a noble title?"

"What you are to write about will be my concern. I will assign who covers which piece of news from now on. As your first assignment you will cover the charity bazaar tomorrow night at Saint Paul Cathedral Rectory."

"_A charity bazaar_?" Lyon exclaimed. "That's not newsworthy to any publication except a church bulletin!"

"Boring to you, perhaps, who has probably never embroidered a slipper or crocheted a tablecloth. But for dozens of girls of that parish that bazaar is an opportunity to show off their womanly skills."

"But it's ridi-"

"Don't like it? Then leave. There are plenty of men who have families to support who would murder for your job. No other paper will hire a female journalist who has been sacked. Maybe a male journalist, but definitely not you."

"What about the long-term piece I am currently working on?"

"Ah, yes," Jenners said, sounding pleased with himself. "Mr. Gault did discuss that tall tale with me. I have taken the liberty of doing some research into your Mr. Dagnar, and I have come up with nothing. I don't see why you should be paid to pull this scam any longer."

"I can show you the evidence I have!" Lyon cried, desperation in her voice.

"I will not waste my time with your falsehoods, Miss Lyon! And if you so much as even breathe Dagnar's name again, I will have you sacked as you should have been three years ago!"

We heard silence, and then footsteps again, but the latter sounded like they were outside the door; the slow, methodical footsteps of an old man.

"Victor!" Eliza grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the door. We were out in the center of the foyer when Victor came into view from the long hallway leading to the kitchen.

"Why no'm, there's not one omnibus that comes out this way," Eliza said softly, as if answering a question I had just asked. "Genteel men like Sir Jenners have their own carriages, so there's no need for 'em. I can call a cab for you if you don't want to walk back home in this miserable weather."

"No thank you, Eliza," I said just as softly. I glanced at Victor. He was walking rapidly toward us, looking greatly annoyed. "I can walk back home. I don't have much money for a cab anyway."

"What are you two doing?" he asked.

"Miss Meg here wanted to know if there was an omnibus route nearby that she might be able to take home so Mr. Basil wouldn't have to come get her in the rain," Eliza said. "I was just telling her-"

"Sir Jenners has important business going on here!" the butler snapped. "Please take your conversation elsewhere where he can't hear it!"

"I am sorry," I said. "We're done now. Thank you, Eliza." I turned to the staircase and made my way up the carpeted stairs, feeling a little empty inside, as if I had lost something very important to me.

* * *

_Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop._

Water dripped off the pipes at a slow, steady rate, the drizzle at the surface feeding into the sewers and landing a short distance from the barrel that was Ratigan's home.

Frank lifted up the grate and crawled out from the ground. He held the pipe up as Mayhew lifted himself with an effort, Lydia helping him. When he was clear of the grate she lifted herself up and Frank let go of the grate, letting it clatter loudly. The girl jumped and winced at the noise.

Mayhew held out his arm and she took it, helping him as they followed Frank into the barrel.

There were at least a dozen thugs in the throne room, chased from the streets by the miserable weather, drinking in the relative luxury of the Boss's domain. They hardly glanced at the trio, but they all shivered as Mayhew passed. The old man frightened most of them.

Lydia, however, felt scared of the thugs and safe with Mayhew. She patted his arm, feeling as if nothing could hurt her while he was there.

They passed on into the small sitting room that Gerard and his cronies were accustomed to using. Lisa sat on the divan, lipstick and eyeliner heavy on her features as she chewed on a peppermint. Mikey, Ray, Bob and Gerard played cards at a table in the corner.

Lydia held onto Mayhew's arm more tightly, as if using him as a shield. "What's the news, boys?" Frank asked.

"Boss's on a rampage," Ray sighed. "No one has done nothing right today."

"How bad?" Frank asked.

Lisa glared at him. "He told me to clear out by tomorrow. Called me the most horrible things! Said I was no good to him!"

Frank laughed.

"What is _that_ for?" she snapped, indignant.

"He wanted to see Mayhew," Frank said, ignoring Lisa. "So he's going to give me hell for nothing?"

"Probably," Mikey said, looking at his hand.

"Wait here," Frank said to Mayhew, going through a door at the opposite end of the room.

"Well, look what we have here." Gerard's eyes glistened darkly. "Not only Hades himself, but his Persephone as well. Thought you were too good for the likes of us, Lydia."

The girl stared at her feet and said nothing.

Gerard got to his feet and walked toward them. Mayhew protectively stepped in front of the girl. The thug laughed. "I already told you old man, this is my domain. And I'll lay a half crown that you'll no longer have power here. Boss's not pleased with you."

Mayhew half-turned his head, looking confused.

"You mean you don't know?" he asked, gasping in shock. "You must truly be going crazy if you don't remember deliberately defying the Boss!"

Lydia stared sideways at Mayhew. He looked blankly at Gerard. The thug smirked, then looked at Lydia. "You must really be pleasing if he's willing to disobey the Boss's orders to keep you away from here!"

"What?" she asked, looking at Mayhew. He continued to stare blankly.

"The detective has been waiting for Mayhew here to pick up a letter from Parker for over a week now. Mayhew knows. He's picked up every other piece of mail but that one. Way to give the detective a heads up that Edward Brandt is a suspicious character indeed."

Frank came back in. "He wants to see you now, Mayhew."

The old man gripped Lydia's hands on his arm, and then gently released her. She looked helplessly as her protector limped away as if in a daze.

"Your time with the devil is up, Persephone," Gerard said.

Lydia closed her eyes. It was not Mayhew who was Hades. The lord of the dead stood before her, ready to force feed her the sour, blood-red pomegranate seeds that would bind her forever to Hell on earth.

* * *

Meg: Things to know in this chapter include omnibuses and the Four Seasons myth. Some of you may know that an omnibus is just a fancy name for a bus. In the nineteenth century there were also buses, normally very large horse-drawn carriages, in which people paid fare to ride to a certain part of the city. They used to be real headaches, apparently- they were crowded and musty and, as there were no actual bus stops, people got on and off whenever they felt like it, which could make a trip very long indeed. By the late nineteenth century, however, actual bus stops and destinations for different omnibuses were added.

The Four Seasons myth is vital to understanding Gerard's references to Hades and Persephone. It's my favorite myth, and I am actually surprised I have not used it in a story before. Persephone was the daughter of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest. She was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld where he tried to make her queen of the dead. She cried a lot for her mother and hated the world of the dead; she was, after all, the daughter of the goddess who brings life to the earth. Hades set a sumptuous feast before her, because if Persephone took even one bite of food she would be forever bound to the underworld, but she was too upset to eat. While her mother searched for her the crops went bad and people began to starve, so Zeus sent Hermes to tell Hades to let Persephone go. When Hermes got there he discovered that Persephone had eaten six pomegranate seeds.

So Demeter and Hades came before Zeus to settle who got the girl. Demeter argued that Hades had tricked Persephone (it's unclear if she knew about the ban on food or if Hades had told her the seeds were too small to count) and Hades argued that the girl had, indeed, eaten the food. Zeus decreed that the two gods would divide the girl between them. Demeter got Persephone for six months of the year, while Hades got her for six months to be his queen. We have spring and summer because Demeter is happy to have received Persephone again, so things grow. But then she is sad when her daughter goes to the underworld in fall and winter, which is why the earth dies in those months.

Any questions, confusion, praise or complaints, PM me or leave a review.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

* * *

Meg: Mainly for erosgirl: Gerard and his thugs are a little higher class than the other thugs; I have not directly stated their higher-class status, but I have dropped a few (maybe too subtle) hints. They wear suits and ties and have more intelligence and better grammar skills than the other thugs. So I hope it's not too surprising that Gerard may know the Four Seasons Myth. Sorry for the confusion!

Nope, the cigarette wielding "symbolism" in Chapter Nine wasn't intentional. Thanks for bringing that to my attention, that is a pretty funny little nod to the movie that inspired this story.

* * *

The grandfather clock in the parlour chimed six as Dawson, Isabelle and I sat at the dining room table. Hot French onion soup steamed in a bowl before us, but no one moved.

"Is he going to be late again?" I frowned. "I'm starving!"

Dawson and Isabelle shot each other uneasy looks. Then Isabelle turned to me. "You know his schedule is always changing at the last minute. We can start eating without him."

I rolled my eyes. "I haven't seen him at all in the past month!"

"Well…" Isabelle began," …you have been working, and he does have a case..."

I shook my head. "He's never ignored me for four weeks straight. I'm getting sick of this. All we hear about is that damn letter and how it's probably for Ratigan. To be honest I believe he is going to find out that it belongs to a girl with no connection to Ratigan at all, regardless of who it's addressed to!"

Dawson chuckled. "I think you're right, Meg. But Basil does have an uncanny knack for finding the sinister in the ordinary."

"Because he's paranoid," I said, folding my arms. "He has such a one-track mind."

We fell into silence, the ticking of the clock trickling into the room.

"Forgive me for asking, but are things all right between you and Basil?" Isabelle asked.

Dawson put his right hand over his eyes and shook his head, frustrated.

"No, things are not all right!" I exclaimed. "He's never here. I never see him. I wasn't aware I had to be as married to his job as he is in order to spend any time with him!"

Dawson continued to shake his head.

"Dr. Dawson!" I snapped, turning to him. "Is he trying to punish me for working for Sir Jenners?"

"No, Meg," he groaned. His hands were still over his eyes. "He's not the vindictive type."

"Are you sure?"

Dawson moved his hand to his forehead and looked at me in exasperation. "I don't want to be dragged into this, Meg. Talk to him."

"I would if he were here!"

Isabelle pushed back her chair and stood up. "Who wants soup?" she asked, reaching for the ladle.

"Basil's not back yet," I said.

"And he may not be back until late," she said. "But I am hungry, and I came over here for dinner and to spend time with David. This letter has been taking up my time with him too, Meg, and I don't even have a job with which to distract me. Now can we talk about something pleasant?"

I blushed and nodded.

Isabelle served Dawson and I, and then poured the cheesy soup into her own bowl.

"What have you been doing recently, Isabelle?" I asked, trying to create a more comfortable atmosphere.

She shrugged. "Oh, keeping busy. There's a charity bazaar tomorrow at Saint Paul Cathedral that I have been helping some of the women from the Ladies' Auxiliary put together."

"Saint Paul? A charity bazaar?" I asked in disbelief.

"I know, it sounds dreadfully dull," Isabelle said. "I believe they're in existence for a bunch of stuck-up women and their daughters to fulfill their empty lives by comparing and tastefully criticizing each other's worsted work, beaded purses and embroidered slippers."

"Isabelle, did you know that Renée Lyon is going to be there tomorrow?"

"Who?" she asked.

"Renée Lyon! You know, that writer from _Aline Monthly_. The one who wrote that article on Ratigan that came out last month!"

"Oh?" Isabelle looked askance at me.

"I gave you the article to read," I said. "Did you even look at it?"

"I read it. Did you?"

"Of course I did! What did you think of it?"

"It was very interesting, actually," Isabelle said. "I'm surprised Ratigan opened up to her as much as he did. The article made it appear that anyone could chat with him over tea about any topic at all."

"She made him look _normal_," I said. "Like he isn't a monster or anything."

"Perhaps he is nice when he isn't trying to plan a crime."

"Half of what he has done to me has not been because of a crime, but his demented nature!" I said defensively. "And yet she met with him, and he agreed to it? How did she manage to get away with it?"

"It's only legal to associate with a criminal and not tell the police," Dawson cut in. "She gave as much information to Ratigan's whereabouts as she could,"

"She must be working with him," I said sharply. "There is no other explanation for it."

"Her story of how she arranged the interviews appears to be true," Dawson said. "She passed a polygraph test."

"And so can Basil when he is lying through his teeth," I said. "

"Meg, can I talk to you in the kitchen? Now?" Isabelle said, narrowing her eyes at me.

I sighed. "Fine."

Once in the kitchen Isabelle lightly smacked me on the shoulder. "What are you doing?" she snapped. "Did you have a bad day or something that you have to complain about every single little thing that is bothering you?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just in a bad mood," I said. "I don't know what's going on between Basil and I right now. Isabelle, I'm starting to think of moving out. I'm sick of his controlling nature over my activities while he can run about and do whatever he pleases. He doesn't even take the responsibility over me; he's turning Dawson into my chaperone!"

The doorbell rang. Isabelle ran to the door and poked her head out. I heard Dawson say, "I'll get it!" She closed the door and sighed.

"You're insecure, you know that? If you were confident about your relationship with Basil this would not be an issue."

"You're right, I am not confident about the relationship!" I exclaimed. "He doesn't show that he cares!"

"I know you're having problems with Basil right now, but can we please just forget it for one meal?" she asked. "Please? It's important to me. I want to spend a nice evening with my friend and my fiancé."

I pursed my lips and nodded. Isabelle patted my shoulder.

"We'll talk about this later, all right?"

I nodded again. We went back out into the parlour.

Dawson was at the door, talking to a woman in low tones. He turned upon our entrance, and the woman's face came into view.

"Miss Lyon?" I gasped. "What are _you _doing here?"

The journalist's eyes were puffy and red as if she had been crying heavily, and her clothes were drenched from having walked in the rain. "I must speak to Mr. Basil as soon as possible," she said, her voice trembling. "Does anyone know where he is?"

"He's out on a case," Dawson said gently. "We don't know when he'll be back."

"Where is he? I could go to him-"

"I am sorry Miss Lyon, I can't give you that information," Dawson said. "Is it really that important?"

"Yes," she breathed. Her eyes involuntarily trailed to the grinning portrait of Professor Ratigan.

Dawson motioned to the parlour chairs. "Well, you're more than welcome to stay-"

"Or you could leave a note," I suggested. Isabelle jabbed me in the ribs.

"No, it's too important to write down," she said, eyes still on the portrait. She seemed to snap back to attention, and turned to Dawson again. "I will just be going."

"Are you sure?" Isabelle asked. "We were just sitting down to dinner. Would you care to join us?"

She shook her head. "No, no thank you… I beg your pardon, I don't think we have been introduced. I am Renée Lyon."

"Isabelle Fremly. Pleased to meet you, Miss Lyon."

"Likewise, Isabelle… Thank you, but not, I really must be going."

"Well, good evening then, Miss Lyon," Dawson said, giving her a small bow.

She gave him a weak smile. "You are a good man, Dr. Dawson," she said, patting his arm. Then she left.

"Poor woman, she looked so upset," Isabelle said. "I wonder what is wrong."

"I think I know," I said softly. "She was at Sir Jenners' mansion today. Let's sit down and eat, I'll tell you all about it."

* * *

An hour later I sat at the window in my room, having given Isabelle and Dawson privacy in the parlour. I stared out at the rain, at the figure of a woman standing at the corner talking to the figure of a man in a deerstalker and Inverness cape. Lyon must have waited to deliver her message to Basil.

I felt a mix of emotions within me; anger, confusion, jealousy, sadness, frustration. I felt that Basil was keeping to himself, hiding how he knew Lyon, caring more about his case than about me… I had known Basil for three years now, and yet I felt like I was no closer to understanding him and his world than I had been as his maidservant. I believed that the only reason he cared for me was due to my association with his archenemy.

My eyes fell on the piles of papers in my room, notes on Basil's cases. I recalled the portrait of Ratigan downstairs, the bell on the mantle, the constant presence of Basil's job here at Baker Street. It was all-consuming, and it had completely run my life ever since I first stepped across the threshold of Lower 221B Baker Street as a short-term housemaid.

When would it end?

Basil walked away from Lyon. I took a deep breath as I heard the front door open. I would have to speak with him if I wanted assurance that our relationship was only cemented by our common enmity against Ratigan.

I walked out of the room and down the stairs into the parlour. Isabelle and Dawson looked up sheepishly at me, sitting together on the loveseat. I glanced about the room. Basil was not in sight.

"Where is Basil?" I asked.

"Kitchen," Dawson said.

"Thank you." I hurried through the room, intent on giving Dawson and Isabelle their privacy.

Once in the safety of the kitchen I found the great mouse detective hanging his Inverness and jacket on a line to dry. He looked troubled.

"You're back," I said a little coldly.

He smiled gently, walked toward me and embraced me, holding me tightly against him. I closed my eyes, trying to figure out why he was so warm towards me now when he had been so cold for weeks.

"How was your day?" was the only words I had in reply.

He pulled away enough from me to lean in and give me a peck on the lips. "Not one of my better days. And yours?"

"Pretty lousy, actually. We must be perfect for each other, because we have similar bad days."

He gave a small smile. "Want to tell me about it over dinner?"

"Oh, we ate already. French onion soup. Isabelle made it for Dawson and I since Mrs. Judson's gone. But there are leftovers. You want me to heat some up for you?"

"Sure."

I put wood in the stove and lit it, poking the pieces into flame. Basil pulled out a soup bowl and cut himself a large hunk of bread as I set the pot of soup on the stove.

"Anyone come for the letter?" I asked.

"Not today."

"Is that why your day was so bad?"

"Partially."

I turned towards him and folded my arms. "What was the other part?"

"Some bad news I received from a friend."

"What sort of bad news?"

He waved his hand as he munched on the bread. "Nothing important to anyone else."

"Did you hear anything important from Renée Lyon?"

"Ah yes, I did run into her outside. She was waiting for me outside. Said she had stopped here earlier."

"Yes, she did. She was very upset, said she had something important to tell you. Failed to mention what it was though."

"Yes. It concerned some information I found on the family of one of Ratigan's former henchmen."

"Oh?" I asked, hoping by the comment to invite him to reveal more information without asking for it.

"Mmhm."

I glanced at the pot of soup, and then took a hunk of mozzarella cheese and cut a few thin slices off of it. "What was the information?"

"Just where the family lives. Lyon wants to interview them. She's hoping to get a story out of it on their lives after the girl's involvement in the regicide plot of 1897."

"Girl? Who was she?"

"Rose McGeady. Perhaps you've heard of her?"

"Sounds familiar. I think I came across the name in some articles I read about Ratigan. She's dead?"

"No one knows. Lyon wants to find out."

"She looked upset when she was here, not curious."

"She was upset. Your Sir Jenners just took over the magazine she works for, and she had a meeting with him today that did not go well, apparently."

"Oh?"

"She didn't give me any details, except to say she saw you there."

"Yes, I did see her there."

The conversation lulled. I glanced at the pot of soup, not even at a bubble yet. I decided now was as good a time as any to begin this difficult conversation. "Basil, can we talk?"

"About what?"

"Our relationship."

He pursed his lips together and nodded, as if expecting this. "What do you want to discuss about our relationship?"

I involuntarily leaned against the stove, but sprung away from it when I realized how hot it was. "I've hardly seen you in the past month. When you haven't been looking for Edward Brant in person you have been poring over maps or directories or church records trying to find him. We've hardly seen each other at all since I started working for Sir Jenners."

Basil shrugged. "Isn't distance from my job what you wanted?"

"Yes, but to focus on our relationship. Instead you're focused entirely on Ratigan, and we have hardly had any contact that has not been discussions of this particular case."

"I don't know what you want me to say," he began cautiously. "My job is based on helping others and catching criminals. Ratigan is the crown jewel. I have to focus on him because catching him is essentially what I have been doing for a living for over a decade now."

"At the cost of our relationship?"

"Meg, we can't have a normal relationship unless Ratigan is gotten rid of. You said so yourself one month ago."

My face grew hot. "I know I did. I just don't want him controlling my life! That's why I got the job! And yet I am treated like a child, escorted everywhere by you and Dawson as if I can't take care of myself!"

Basil shook his head. "I am sorry you feel that way, but it can't be helped. Ratigan is still out there."

The water behind me began to bubble.

"See, that's the problem! He's always in the picture. I wanted to get another job to forget about Ratigan, to not let him affect me."

"That's fantasy. I'm sorry Meg, but the reality of the situation is that Ratigan cannot be factored out of most aspects of your life. That is the albatross round your neck. I wish it wasn't so, but you can't deny that it is."

The soup boiled behind me. I quickly turned and set the soup on another burner. I went to the table and took Basil's bowl from him. "It's been over one year since I last heard from him," I said, going back to the pot. Ladling some soup in I continued, "He never made good on his threat to harm you. He hasn't even made any attempt as far as you can see, right?"

"No," Basil admitted. "My sources over the past year had told me that he was still active in the criminal underworld, but no solid plan against you or me had surfaced."

"So perhaps he's over me by now." I sprinkled the sliced cheese into the soup and stirred the melting cheese around, creating swirls in the brown soup.

"He's not."

I returned the bowl to Basil. "How are you so sure of that?"

The detective looked straight into my eyes. "I had a source tell me recently that Ratigan has been watching Jenners' house."

I sat down. "So? That could be due to any one of Jenners' numerous business deals."

"It began around the time you started working there, or so the source guesses."

"Who is your source?"

He shook his head. "I don't like to reveal their names if I can help it, Meg. This one could be in particular trouble if anything leaked out."

"I promise I won't tell anyone. Please tell me."

He shook his head again. "All you need to know is it's a reliable source who was returning me a favor.

"Basil, please. I want to judge the source's reliability for myself."

He sighed.

"Please?"

"You have to promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone except Dawson."

"All right."

He raised his eyebrows.

"I promise!" I exclaimed.

He took a sip of his soup. "Isabelle's a good cook. This is delicious."

"Stop stalling!"

"I'm not stalling. I haven't eaten all day."

"Then eat," I said impatiently.

Basil chuckled. "All right, I get it. I'll tell you. The source is Renée Lyon."

A sick feeling grew at the pit of my stomach. "_Her?_"

"Yes."

"So I've been right about her all along! She _is_ associating with Ratigan outside of her job!"

Basil shook his head. "No. Let me explain. Ratigan stopped by her flat nearly one month ago to thank her on the article she wrote about him in last month's _Aline_. He also warned her that your Algernon Jenners was keeping an eye on her activities. When she asked him how he knew this, he said that he had been watching the man's house for unrelated reasons.

"It wasn't until she ran into you at Jenners' house today that she made the connection, and why she stopped by this evening. When comparing the timelines, it appears that Ratigan spoke to her the same week you began to work for Jenners."

"You believe her?"

"Why would she lie? You're the one who doesn't like her. She feels no enmity towards you."

I leaned my head against my right hand, as if it was too much effort to keep it up. "Oh no."

He nodded, looking grim. "I'm sorry Meg, but he's either still infatuated with you or wants revenge. Either way it doesn't appear that he'll leave you alone until he gets what he wants or he's dead."

I closed my eyes. The will to talk about my relationship problems with Basil was gone. We were too far off topic with a problem that seemed much bigger than our relationship.

I heard Basil's chair scrape across the wood floor. He placed his arms around me. I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him as if to a lifesaver.

* * *

Mayhew, Lydia and Bob entered Mayhew's flat late that evening. Bob growled a "Don't disturb me!" and went into Mayhew's room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Mayhew built a low fire in the small fireplace in the parlour, the orange flames casting long shadows on the walls. He then sat on the rocking chair, staring at the flames and looking troubled.

Lydia stared at him from her place on the couch, on the silhouette of the old man who had repeatedly helped her, feeling as if she could never repay him for suffering so much on her account.

"He's angry with you, isn't he?" she asked softly.

Mayhew's head snapped in her direction.

"We heard some of the yelling from the lounge," she murmured, keeping her voice low so Bob wouldn't hear. "Mr. Mayhew, please get the letter tomorrow."

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

He pointed to his closed bedroom door where Bob had gone, and the pointed to the ground. He shook his head again.

"You're worried about Gerard?"

He nodded.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Mr. Mayhew. I am afraid of what he may do to me once I'm back down there. But we both know I can't stay up here forever."

Mayhew shook his head again. He pantomimed stirring a pot and scrubbing, then pointed to Lydia. He pressed his fingertips to his thumbs and then opened and closed them, mimicking two mouths talking to each other.

Lydia smiled sadly. "That would be wonderful of you to talk to him about keeping me up here permanently, Mr. Mayhew. I hope it works. But I won't count on it. Gerard's men can't keep watching me constantly."

The old man pointed to himself.

The girl's heart jumped. "You mean… do you think… he would let you watch me yourself?"

He shrugged, and then smiled knowingly.

"I would love that!" She then frowned. "I don't know if it would work. I hope you can get the professor to listen to you. But if you can't…"

The logs shifted, sending a few embers flying.

She looked again at Mayhew. "Please, get the letter. I heard Ray telling Frank the other day that I would have to remain here for a few weeks anyway after the detective came, just in case. That might give us some more time together. And perhaps a few letters will come in from Shaun then."

She was amazed at how calm she sounded when she really wished to disappear from existence. Mayhew nodded in unconvinced agreement with her words, trying to look reassuring. He then turned back to the fire, concentrating on the flickering flames as if mentally directing the losing side of a fierce battle.

* * *

Meg: Yep, another filler chapter. And another chapter where I describe the process of making food in significant detail. Sorry if the details are boring you guys; descriptions are my weak point in writing so I am trying to write more descriptive scenes in order to improve my skills. It has also come to my attention that this is the first chapter in which I didn't place Gerard in a scene with Lydia. Yay!


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

Meg: The beginning of this chapter is an excerpt from a short story I wrote a long over five years ago called, "Carol of the Bells." I did minimal editing on it because there is extensive use of passive tense, which seems to be a good mistake for Lydia, as a rusty writer, to make.

* * *

_She had no sense of direction, no idea what she wanted to make of herself, or her life. She was afraid that the future would sweep everyone else away, leaving her in the dust, alone and unappreciated._

_The snow came down more steadily now, in one thick swirl. She took longer strides, going even faster than before._

_She had no one to talk to, no one who would patiently listen to her. She needed someone to listen, to care. She wanted someone to be there to offer her support, to give her advice, to lend a helping hand. But there was no one to sympathize with her problems. Every time she tried to confide her woes to someone, that person would then strive to keep his distance from her. She had learned to fall into herself, to hide all her problems behind a false façade of optimism._

_The steady snowfall started to come in gusts, a strong wind blowing clumps of snowflakes into her face. She started to jog._

_Her heart stung. Where were her companions? Where were the answers to her frantic prayers?_

_She stopped. A church bell tolled a low, melancholy note that vibrated in the winter twilight and chilled her to the bone._

'_Alone'__ it sang. '__Alone…'_

Lydia looked up from the sheet of paper with a start towards the parlour. Bob must have fallen asleep, for he honked out snores like a roaring lion. She leaned back against the kitchen chair and stared at the words on her page.

She had had aspirations to be a novelist, once. She had even finished a novel, and Shaun had begun to help her edit it. They had not gotten past the fourth chapter before the troubles set in. The troubles, as Lydia called them, were her periods of sadness, of self-depreciation, marked by her courtship with Shaun. She thought it was temporary, that it would go away with time. But two years later, even with the support of Shaun, the troubles had grown worse.

There had been a little relief in the kindness of Mayhew, but not enough to make her feel content, as she had been before the troubles began. She felt unproductive, unwanted, and alone. These feelings had alienated her from those who were happy or content, including Shaun, and forced her to consider whether her life was of any real worth.

She had been trying to bring back her enthusiasm for life while in Ratigan's care by writing again, but the two times she had tried to write anything Gerard and his boys had taken the few paragraphs, read them aloud and promptly belittled her efforts. Ratigan had seen them as a sign of her laziness, her inability to cope with reality. So she had given them up.

Today it had occurred to her that perhaps Mayhew's care for her would be the best setting to work on her writing, so long abandoned.

'_Alone'__ it sang. '__Alone…'_

She sighed. To write the next sentence felt like too much work. What had once been a labour of love had turned into a chore, much like the motions of living had become for her.

She heard the front door open and close, and Mayhew's irregular steps over the floorboards. The snoring immediately stopped.

Lydia pushed her chair away from the table, rose to her feet and went into the next room.

She looked up at the old man expectantly, while Bob sat up on the sofa, rubbing his eyes. Mayhew saw her and held up a soiled letter. He extended it to her.

"Bloody hell!" Bob snarled, bounding to his feet. "You couldn't have waited a few hours, old man? Mikey was supposed to relieve me in an hour and a half, but now I'm stuck here until the detective is gone! Bloody hell!"

He shoved over a small table with an old crockery bowl on it, the bowl breaking into larger pieces as it smashed against the floor. He then stormed into Mayhew's bedroom and slammed the door.

The young girl looked at Mayhew, who had narrowed his eyes at the closed bedroom door. She fell to her knees and began to gather up the pieces of the bowl.

Her eyes fell upon something among the pieces—a tarnished silver medallion on a red ribbon with black edges. She picked it up and examined it. On the one side was a bunch of loops strung together and some smaller looped lines that looked like they came from an Arabic language, all within a wreath. She turned the medallion over. There was a cannon, mortar and anchor standing on the Russian flag, a map spread over the cannon. In the background were the flags of Britain, France and two other flags she did not recognize. At the bottom of the flags it said: 'Crimea 1855.'

"Mr. Mayhew, what is this?" she asked.

The old man looked over her shoulder, staring blankly at the medal.

"Is this yours?"

He nodded.

"Were you in the army?"

He nodded again.

"When?"

He thought for a moment, and then held up five fingers.

She thought for a moment, looking at the 1855 on the medal. "Fifty years ago?"

He nodded. He then handed her the letter and walked away.

She stared at the medal in disbelief. She knew a war had been fought in the Crimea several decades ago, but she could not remember which one. Instead she set the fallen table upright, a drawer hanging open from it. She peered in the drawer, and saw a tarnished silver Victoria Cross lying there, the highest honor a military man could receive from the government.

She looked at Mayhew's form moving about in the kitchen. What had Mayhew done to deserve such honors? And why was such a decorated man living in abject poverty, working for the Napoleon of Crime?

* * *

Basil walked around the gritty row houses in which the old man with the limp had entered. He put his hand on his chin, staring at the door to Number 3. He cocked his head sideways, as if slightly altering the perspective of the house would give him a better idea of what to do next.

Finally he turned towards Dawson. "I need you to watch the house while I pick up Meg. Then I'll come back and join you."

"But I thought you said that we'd only stake out the houses of the two Edward Brandts with extensive criminal records."

"Change of plans, old friend," he said. "We can't approach the house now; it would definitely alert Ratigan that we were here. I'll stay the night here, and we can approach them in the morning. Note if anyone comes in or leaves."

"Should I watch the front door or the back?"

"The back, but check between the two every so often."

Dawson nodded and pulled his coat more tightly around him as Basil went off down the street. The doctor was just glad that Basil finally seemed to me more concerned about his sweetheart than the recipient of someone else's love letter.

* * *

Lyon sat at a church pew in the Calvary Anglican Church pretending to listen to the choir sing, a small Bible open in her hands. Instead her mind wandered to the previous day's meeting with Sir Algernon Jenners.

Chills went down her spine as she went over one image in her mind: Algernon Jenners, walking around the long mahogany dining room table as he gave his patriotic business speech. The speech itself was ridiculous, but Jenners said it all so convincingly that she could not help but believe that the ideals he had expressed were his true motives for buying _The Daily Press _and _The_ _Aline Monthly._ But the speech didn't bother her. It was the man himself. His eyes were yellow sclera with green irises; friendless and foreboding to her. But his touch…

She cringed. After her comment about working in the newspaper business, Jenners had stopped behind her chair. He had placed his hands on her shoulder and leaned down, placing his mouth near her right ear. "Do keep talking in that way, Miss Lyon," he had whispered. "I am your boss now. I can easily rectify your involvement in the newspaper business. Do I make myself clear?"

Jenners had put her in a nearly impossible situation; not only had he threatened her job if she pursued Dagnar any further, he had also limited the stories she was to write to local fundraisers and church activities and reduced her pay to nearly half of what a man with her experience would normally receive. Her pay had always been lower than the male reporters, but never this low; she was already living frugally.

The worse part about it was she had to take it. If she left now she would receive a decent recommendation from Larry Gault, perhaps, but there was no guarantee of that. If she stayed and did anything that Jenners deemed to be inappropriate to her station and sex, however, then he'd sack her and she wouldn't have any recommendation at all, which was worse than having a bad one.

The young woman's chest heaved as she tried to get rid of the sudden choking feeling in her throat. His touch on her shoulders had been possessive, much like a Roman patron reminding his lowly, serf-like client of his inferior status and all of the power wielded over him. She had wanted nothing more than to shake off his power from her shoulders and run away.

All she had done in response was nod. But the weight of his power still sat on her chest, stifling her. The choking rose up to her mouth and she stifled a sob with her right hand over her throat, her eyes watering.

Out of her peripheral vision she saw a large figure move into the pew behind her. The kneeler creaked under his weight as he got down on his knees, his hands clasped together in prayer. She sighed when she felt his breath on her neck and moved over a little away from him, annoyed that out of all the empty seats in the church this particular man had chosen to sit directly behind her.

"So is this how I'm supposed to talk to God?" a familiar voice asked.

Lyon gave a start. She began to turn around, hardly believing her ears.

"Don't look at me," the man whispered. "You might draw attention from the boys Jenners has tailing you."

She leaned back and slightly turned her head, not enough to see him but enough to exchange words without being heard from the next pew. "Have you gone daft?" she hissed. "I'll be arrested if they know I'm speaking with you! You could possibly be captured!"

"I look like an old man in a well-worn overcoat," Ratigan replied. "They won't know who I am. I just don't want anyone questioning who that old man was who you were speaking with during church."

"Didn't know you were the churchgoing type," Lyon said.

The criminal mastermind chuckled in her ear. "Every Sunday, holy day and day of obligation of the first twelve years of my life I sat with my family near the front of Our Lady of Grace Church," he murmured. "My parents brought me up by a strict religious standard."

"Anglican?"

"Of course."

"When did you stop going?"

"Gradually when I entered boarding school. I began to work on mathematics instead of listening to the sermons. When I was caught doing that I began to miss Sundays to work alone in my room. By the time I was sixteen I had stopped going altogether."

"Why?"

"The rituals, the celebrations and ceremonies didn't mean anything personally to me. Still don't."

"So you haven't been back since then?"

"On the contrary, I was just here last week."

"Hah hah," she said sarcastically. "Stop joking."

"I'm not."

"So what were you doing here last week, planning another grand scheme?"

"No."

"For worship?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what were you doing?"

"Thinking."

"_Thinking? Here?"_ she exclaimed.

"Yes. Why does that surprise you?"

"Can't you think somewhere else?"

"A church is a wonderful place to just sit and gather your thoughts."

"What do you think about?"

"My life." He said it simply, as if it explained everything.

"What about your life?"

"Anything, really. Recent problems or happenings, memories, personal reflections."

She leaned back further and glanced at him, but could barely see him out of the corner of her eye. "Can I ask a personal religious question?"

"Of course."

"Do you believe in God?"

He leaned closer to her. "Yes," he whispered in her ear, the hot air from his breath causing it to tingle.

"How so? Do you just believe he exists, or do you think He's something more- a loving God, a vengeful God?"

"I believe God exists. I believe He wants us to be happy. That's our purpose here."

"Nothing about being saved through Christ, living for him, living by his moral standards?"

"What are these moral standards you speak of?"

"Well, morals as taught by the Ten Commandments, the Gospels, St. Paul's letters…"

He sighed. "Who determined that those standards were the ones by which we should live?"

Lyon shrugged. "People in biblical times, I suppose."

"And what makes them right?"

Her eyes fell upon the choir, and she did not respond.

"I believe every person has the responsibility of determining his own morals," Ratigan said.

"How do you know they're right?"

"How do you know they're wrong?"

She looked down at the Bible in her hands, feeling lost. "I don't know."

"That's why we need to create our own moral standards."

"What are your moral standards?"

"Happiness. If something makes a man happy, then he should do it. If it doesn't make a man happy, then he shouldn't do it."

"So do you practice what you preach?"

"I try."

"Are you happy, James?"

"No."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because the woman I love won't have me." She detected no regret or sadness in his voice; he said that statement as if it was a long acknowledged fact.

"Should have thought of that before you killed her husband and kidnapped her numerous times," Lyon said drily.

"Oh, you're a funny one," he responded, sounding annoyed.

"So what are you doing here?" the journalist whispered.

He lightly brushed his elbow against her shoulder. "I came to check on you."

"What for?"

"I heard about your meeting with Jenners."

"How?"

"I told you, I was watching his house for unrelated reasons."

She sighed. "Yes, I saw Megana Sarentis there. Planning on revenge or just another forced marriage?"

"Just eyeing up my options."

"For what?"

"I'm sorry about the restrictions on your job and the abominable way in which you have been treated," he said.

She shrugged, noting the abrupt change of subject. "It's not important."

"It is to you," he murmured. "You've been crying."

"It's only my livelihood," she whispered, choking up again. "I was at a church bazaar for three hours today, and after I wrote my boring story and the news editor read through it Jenners was there, reading through it as well. He tore it apart and made me rewrite a large portion of it. It was a lousy story before he read it, and a lousy story after I 'fixed' it."

"So you're writing for the daily now?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "He won't tell me."

"I heard he cut your pay."

She nodded.

They were silent, listening to the choir for a few moments: _"And call upon me in the time of trouble so will I hear thee, and thou shalt praise me."_

Then Ratigan said, "I believe he bought the paper to hurt your career."

"The thought has crossed my mind."

"Rose, you don't have to put up with this."

"But I do. Who else will hire me? I'm a woman and a known legal liability."

"What about _The London Free-Press_?"

"Hah! I'll never go back there. I didn't leave on the best of terms."

"What about _The Mirror_?"

"I doubt they'd hire me."

"Not if a certain gentleman buys it, said gentleman being quite the devoted reader of Renée Lyon's work."

She dropped her Bible in surprise. She bent down to pick it up and glanced sideways at him. He really did look like an elderly man in his disguise. "You would buy a newspaper just to ensure I had a job?"

"Come now Rose, not everything is about you. Controlling a popular media source isn't the worst idea for a man with as terrible a reputation as I have," he said with a wide grin. "Perhaps I could change the public's opinion of me."

She picked up the Bible and slid back into her seat. "I refuse to write any articles lauding you, you egotistical lout," she said with a smile.

"I am hurt indeed, especially when I am offering you a chance to escape Jenners' control," he said teasingly.

"We'll see. He may cool off after he sees how competent of a journalist I am."

"Do you believe that?"

"I have to," she murmured. "I won't last long if this keeps up."

He shuffled on the kneeler. "You could always come back and work for me."

"Not this again," she groaned.

"You could be my second-in-command."

"I thought you were training Mr. Wade for that job."

He scoffed. "Gerard is good, perhaps better than you were in some ways, but I fear he's too ambitious for his own good. His own personal gain can get in the way of what I want at times. He nearly risked a plan that would get Basil off my tail by being unable to control himself. I need someone I can truly depend upon."

"Why do you keep bringing this topic up?" she hissed. "You know my stance; it hasn't changed in three years."

"The situation is different now."

"How so?"

"Jenners now controls your job. If he doesn't discover your association with me, then he surely will take some small mistake and magnify it, giving him a legal reason to fire you. I just don't want to see you hurt."

"That is not your concern," she said, her voice shaking.

"But it is," he said softly. "Rose, you mean more to me than anyone else, dead or living."

"Now you're just patronizing me."

"I'm serious. Why else would I risk everything to come here and talk to you now? Why else do you think I've had my man Barrie keeping an eye on you for the past month? Why do you think I asked you to marry me, when was it... March?"

"Don't start," she said, closing her eyes. "I thought we were over that."

"We are. I only brought it up as a demonstration of my fondness for you, Rose. I have nothing but good intentions towards you. And I believe that the best thing for you would be to get as far away from Jenners as possible."

"If I wanted to do that I'd go to Australia," she whispered. "It's on the other side of the world."

"So far away from me?"

"I'm sure Megana Sarentis could keep you occupied."

"You underestimate your worth."

"You overestimate my tolerance."

"Your tolerance for what?"

"James, this is neither the time nor the place," she hissed. "Besides, you've been kneeling there too long for it not to look suspicious."

"My back's killing me anyway," he groaned. She heard him rise with some effort to his feet.

She partially turned her head. "When will I see you again?"

"I'll come to you when I think it's safe, or when Jenners does something so heinous to you I become half-tempted to march over to his residence and cut his head off."

She gave him a small smile.

He leaned over, stretching his back. "Don't let Jenners get to you. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help."

"Thanks so much, James. You don't know how good it was to see you."

"Good evening, Rose."

* * *

The next morning Basil lightly rapped on the soggy wood of house Number 3. There was some noise of people moving from within, a pattering of footsteps, and then an unlocking of the door.

The door creaked open, revealing a pale young girl with golden brown hair bound in a messy bun behind her head. Basil took note of her faded pink dress and slightly soiled boots. She looked inquiringly at Basil and Dawson, still in their disguises. "Yes, can I help you?"

"We're lookin' fer Edward Brandt," Basil said in a throaty voice. "Does 'e live 'ere?"

The girl nodded. "Yes. May I ask who is calling?"

"Two old friends."

Lydia raised her eyebrows. "Would you wait here just one moment?" she asked, before closing the door. Basil noted the click of the lock.

"She locked us out," Dawson murmured. "How rude!"

"Would you let two ruffians such as us readily into your home when all they can tell you about themselves is they're two old friends?"

Within a few minutes the girl had let them into the parlour. Mayhew sat on the sofa. Lydia offered the men an armchair and a rocking chair, and took a seat next to the old man. She pulled on his hand and pointed to the duo. He shook his head.

"Mister Brandt? This is 'im?" Basil asked, motioning towards Mayhew.

"Yes, this is my grandfather Edward Brandt," Lydia said, taking a deep breath, practicing what she had rehearsed so many times over. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your names. Who are you?"

"I'm Cullens, and this'n 'ere is Silver," Basil said, cocking his head in Dawson's direction. "Can we talk to yer grandferther in private?"

She shook her head. "My grandfather is mute. You may find it hard to converse with him without someone who is used to reading his signs."

"And 'oo are ye, missy?"

"His granddaughter, Lydia."

Dawson shot Basil a knowing look. The detective gave a slight shake of his head and continued," I 'spose we'll go through ye then, missy. We're two ole' sailors lookin' fer some employ, and we 'ere your grandferther, Brandt, 'as a proposition tah make."

Lydia scrunched her face in pure confusion and turned to Mayhew. The old man shook his head rapidly and then peered curiously at the two men.

"He has no idea what you're talking about," she said. "He works mainly in the junk business, and—" here she turned to Mayhew, "—you don't work with shipowners from what I recall, right Grandpapa?"

Mayhew nodded.

"Funny, we were told this t'was the place tah go."

Lydia shook her head.

Basil produced a piece of paper with the house address written on it. "This is yer 'ouse, roight?"

Mayhew took the paper and glanced over it. He then nodded and handed it to Lydia, who took it and scanned it. "Number 3 Perry Row. Yes, that's our flat. Who told you to come here?"

"Some fellah at the East India docks."

"Perhaps he gave you our address when he was thinking of another Brandt? Grandpapa is often among those docks."

Basil shook his head as he took the paper back from her. "Mayhaps. We'll jest be goin' then."

"All right." Lydia walked the detective and the doctor to the door. "Good luck finding the right place."

The two were halfway down the street when Dawson spoke up, "Well, there's Lydia."

"If that is Lydia, then why was the letter addressed to Edward Brandt and not her? Remember, the writer of one of the other letters we have mentioned Lydia's family not accepting him."

"Perhaps he can't read that it wasn't addressed to him."

Basil shook his head. "He was able to read his own address, both to pick up the letter and to read the address I showed him. He can read. He must have read the letter if it was addressed to him."

"Perhaps the grandfather does approve of the suitor. I didn't see any other family members there."

Basil shook his head. "We'll be back tomorrow, when the old man is gone. Perhaps then Lydia can tell us something herself."

* * *

Meg: Yes, Ratigan and Lyon have a personal history that extends beyond "Every Rose Has a Thorn" and occurs before this story, which means it has been going on pretty much all the time Ratigan has been enamoured of Megana. I will fully explain the situation later on in the story.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

Meg: Sorry I am not doing better getting these chapters up. I spent most of today writing this chapter, having written the first page about three weeks ago. Some things caught up with me, including studying for the GREs and my presentation for my research project. But here is the chapter, and I hope it raises more questions about Lydia than it answers.

* * *

As soon as Mayhew left the flat the next morning Lydia pulled out the two tarnished medals from the drawer and brought them into the kitchen. Laying them on a cloth on the table, she pulled out a bottle of silver polish and put on a coarse, stained apron over her pink dress. She sat down at the table, where Bob sat chewing on some bread and sipping a cup of tea, the cream having been replaced with a shot of whiskey.

"What're you doing?" he asked in a way that indicated the answer was not of any importance to him.

"Polishing."

"What're you polishing, then?"

"Some tarnished silver of Mr. Mayhew's."

Lydia picked up a rag and dabbed some of the polish onto it. She then rubbed the polish on one edge of the Crimea medal. Brightness gleamed through.

"Bob, where is the Crimea?"

The thug thought for a few moments. "Russia."

"Was there a war fought there?"

"Of course, you dunderhead."

"When?"

"Fifty years ago."

"What war was it?"

Bob glared at her. "The Crimean War, you stupid girl. Now would you shuddup and let me eat in peace?"

She mumbled out an affirmative and continued rubbing on the Crimean medallion, slowly recalling some lesson on the Crimean War in school. She thought some poet had written a poem on the topic that had been very popular at one point.

There was a loud knocking on the front door which sent both Lydia and Bob to their feet. They exchanged uneasy looks for a few moments.

"Perhaps it's the scrap man," Lydia said slowly.

"He comes to the back door!" Bob hissed. "No one, not even the neighbors, come to the front door!"

"Then I guess it's the detective," she whispered.

There was a second series of knocks. "Get the damn door!" Bob barked. He grabbed his teacup and bread and headed into Mayhew's room, his prearranged hiding place.

Lydia rushed to the front door. As soon as Bob had closed the bedroom door behind him she reached for the doorknob, only to realize that she still had the rag of polish and the Crimea medallion in her hands. She quickly wrapped the silver in the rag, making sure the ribbon hung out so polish did not stain it. She looked around the small parlour and, after some deliberation and another knock, she thrust the rag beneath the cushion of the worn couch. Then, wiping her free hand on her apron, she went back to the door and opened it.

She recognized the physical characteristics of the two men in genteel clothing standing before her enough from pictures to identify them as Basil of Baker Street and David Q. Dawson. "Yes?" she said, looking curiously at them. "May I help you?"

"We are looking for a Miss Lydia Brandt," the taller and slimmer of the two said, calmly sizing her up.

She took a step back and narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"

"I am Basil of Baker Street, and this here is my colleague, Dr. Dawson," the tall mouse said. "Are you Lydia?"

She nodded. "Yes, yes I am. And you're… you're that detective who saved the Queen from Professor Ratigan!" She turned away for a moment, feeling silly for that scripted part. She turned back to him. "You wished to speak with… with me?"

"Yes, if you are not busy. I see you have been doing some polishing?" Basil motioned to her hands.

She looked down at her hands, stained by polish. She nodded. "Oh yes. I'm rather busy."

"Can you give us just a few minutes of your time, Miss Brandt?"

"Oh, oh yes! I mean, I was busy, but I can certainly speak with you. Do please come in," she said, opening the door wider to emit them.

The detective and his colleague entered and took the seats she offered them on the couch. "Can I get you anything to eat or drink? Some tea, perhaps?"

The doctor shot his companion a questioning look. Basil nodded. "Yes, that would be lovely," he said

She smiled back and excused herself.

She returned from the kitchen several minutes later, a tray laden with three mismatched tea cups and a tea kettle, a few slices of cheese as an appetizer. "I do apologize," she said, blushing at the poor fare she set on the tea table before them. "We rarely receive visitors, so…" She stopped when she saw the Crimea medallion and rag of polish in Basil's hands.

"I found this under my seat," he said. "It appears to have been misplaced."

Her face burned in embarrassment. "Yes, I… I put it there."

"Seems like an odd place for a medal with polish on it, underneath your good furniture," he said.

She felt a lump form at the back of her throat, her heart racing. She had not prepared herself for this sort of situation. "I was… was startled, sir, at the knocking, and went to the door and… and… and…" She bowed her head, fighting back an urge to unravel at the seams. "I… I didn't want to come to the door with housework. We… we never get visitors, and... I… I panicked."

She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath coming in small, rapid gasps, her panic growing with the knowledge that she may have blown her reason for being there, and endangered Shaun's life.

"That's perfectly all right, Miss Brandt," an unfamiliar voice said. She glanced up, her eyes meeting the doctor's. She had not heard him speak before. His voice was warm, friendly. "My friend here meant no harm. He simply didn't want any polish to get on your furniture."

She inwardly cursed herself as she accepted the medallion which the doctor extended to her. "I… I do apologize… I was just so embarrassed… I… we… we're not uncivilized here, but... but…"

"This is nothing. Two months ago I approached a young lady's father to ask for her hand in marriage. Now the father is a strict military man- everything has to be just so with him. I had prepared for the day well in advance, and had gone to the barber that morning, making sure nothing was amiss with my appearance. I even purchased a new set of clothing. When I put the clothing on I discovered that I had gained a little weight from when I had been fitted for the clothes, so they were tighter on me. I put the clothes on anyway, as I had to meet the father very soon and no alternative could be found. I went to the lady's house and was admitted to see the father, who offered me a chair. When I sat down I heard a loud rip."

Lydia's hand flew to her mouth to cover up her smile. Basil shot Dawson a mortified look, indicating he had not heard the story before."

"My trousers had split in two!" Dawson said, laughing heartily.

The girl started to giggle. Basil relaxed, and laughed along with them.

"So what did you do?" Lydia asked when the laughter began to subside.

"The lady's father did just what you did—he laughed at my expense. When he finished I just continued with what I had to say, too determined to let a pair of split trousers get in the way of what I wanted."

"What happened?"

"The father admired my courage in asking for her hand despite the embarrassment I had just gone through. He thought it showed that I put my affection for her before anything else, and I received his permission to marry his daughter."

Lydia genuinely smiled, grateful for this man's good humor. She placed the medallion on an end table next to her, then began to pour the two visitors their tea.

"That is a curious medal, Miss Brandt," Basil said, accepting a cup from her. "Whose is it?"

"Mist-, erm, my grandfather. Mr. Brandt."

"How did he come by it?"

"He apparently was awarded it in 1855. He also has a Victoria Cross, but he has not been able to explain to me what the circumstances were under which he received the medals."

"He fought in the Crimea?"

She shrugged as she handed Dawson his cup. "My grandfather is mute. I can communicate with him easily on a daily basis, but asking him anything about his past, or about things of which I have no real knowledge, is much more challenging. I am trying to get the information out of him."

"How did he become mute?" Basil asked.

"I don't know," she said, stirring her cup of tea.

"How long have you lived with him?"

"Five months now." She sensed that now would be a good time to change the subject. "So you wished to speak with me?"

Basil set down his cup. "Yes. We are here to inquire about one Shaun Parker."

She took a sip of her tea, suddenly aware that her hand was perceptibly shaking. "Shaun Parker?"

"Do you know a man of that name?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes, in Nottingham. I grew up there. He lived about two miles away."

"You knew him growing up?"

"Oh no, of course not. Our families never knew each other, and he was in college by the time I had entered primary school."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty, sir."

"And how old is Mr. Parker?"

"Somewhere in his late twenties, I believe."

"How do you know him, then?"

"I met him through a childhood friend, David Calloway. He introduced us about two years ago. Mr. Parker ran a club for young men that David thought I would find intriguing."

"How well do you know him?"

She shrugged. "Not that well. I ran into him several times after our first meeting, but he was quiet around me. I'm shy as well, so the conversations did not get far."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"About eighteen months ago, right before I took up a governess position in Leeds."

"Leeds? What are you doing here in London?"

"My grandfather is getting older, and he needs someone to keep house for him."

Basil sat back in his chair, his tea untouched before him. "Tell me, what was Mr. Parker's profession?"

"Mr. Parker was trained as a lab assistant, but his main source of income is painting toy soldiers for war games."

Dawson raised his eyebrow. "War games?"

"My dear doctor, surely you saw war games in your time in the military," said Basil. "Military commanders will use miniature lead soldiers to demonstrate strategies before battles."

"Oh!" Dawson exclaimed. "Yes, they do. I was not aware it had permeated the civilian sphere."

Lydia shrugged. "I suppose it has. Mr. Parker's club was for young men who wanted to play with his painted armies."

"Why did your friend think you would be interested, Miss Brandt?"

The girl gave a little laugh. "I used to read accounts of ancient battles or naval battles with big, old broadsides. David thought that I would like to attend that particular club session because Mr. Parker had planned to set up a Napoleonic naval battle."

"How was the session?"

"Oh, it was wonderful!" Then she stopped and gave Basil a look of concentrated unease. "Mr. Basil, why are you asking me about Mr. Parker?"

"We need to find him and ask him some questions."

"Questions regarding what, exactly?"

"Questions regarding a case we are currently working on. Any information you have to his whereabouts would be most greatly appreciated."

"I have not seen him for eighteen months."

"How about anyone who knew him in Nottingham. Your friend, David Calloway?"

"David joined the army around the time I last saw Parker. Last I heard David was stationed in Bombay."

"Who were some of the other young men in this club?"

"I don't know their names."

"Anyone? Your parents?"

"No! They knew him even less than I."

"How about your grandfather? When will he be back?"

She shook her head. "He doesn't know Mr. Parker."

"It won't hurt us to ask."

She shook her head more vigorously. "My grandfather has never met him."

"Really?" Basil pulled out a worn envelope from the folds of his cloak. "Tell me, what is the address of this flat?"

Her heart raced at the sight of the envelope. She kept her eyes on it as she said. "Number 3 Perry Row."

"What is your grandfather's full name?"

"Edward Brandt."

"Does the address: "127 Balaclava Street, Esor, London," mean anything to you?" Basil asked.

She bit her lower lip and shook her head again, trying to look nervous.

"Your grandfather picked up a letter three days ago with such an address on it and brought it back here. Why?"

She widened her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

She stared at the detective, his face cold and expressionless. She shifted her gaze to the doctor, whose eyes moved from his comrade to her and back again, waiting for the next move.

She knew it would be hers. She buried her face in her hands, practicing a rehearsed action. "My parents paid you to find out whether I still had contact with him, didn't they?" she moaned.

An awkward silence of several moments followed. Then Basil said, "What do you mean?"

She motioned to the letter in his hands. "Have you read that letter?"

"Yes."

"Is that from Sha-, I mean, Mr. Parkers?"

"Yes."

"For me?"

He nodded.

She reached for the letter. He handed it to her.

The next part, like the beginning, was not scripted. Lydia had not thought she would open the letter until she was creasing the folds of the flimsy tissue paper on which it had been composed, the envelope tossed carelessly on the floor. A picture from a magazine had been inserted into the folds of the letter, with a picture of a field covered in lilacs, heather, bluebells and buttercups. Within the margins some lines of sloppy penmanship said:

_Here is a picture I came across that reminded me of the field I imagined in the fantasy I had about you coming home. It made me think of you._

_I love you._

She burst into tears, releasing her emotions, her bad thoughts and feelings, her self-hatred and her insecurities, forgetting the two men before her, the thug hiding behind the wall, the rat who dwelt in the dark places away from the sun, her family, and only of two people: herself and Shaun Parker.

Sometime later she heard the doctor murmur, "Perhaps we should go."

Her head bolted up and she rapidly wiped tears from her eyes. "How much do you know?"

"Know of what?" Basil asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Why are you here?" she said.

Basil gave Dawson a helpless look. The doctor sighed and then turned toward Lydia. "Miss Brandt, I can assure you your parents have not hired us for any purpose whatsoever. We don't even know their names. We found Mr. Parker's letters on a ship that is believed to belong to a criminal organization."

"What?"

"This could be just coincidence," said Dawson, waving a hand at Basil as he opened his mouth to protest. "We just need to know the truth of your relationship to Mr. Parker."

"Why? To determine whether he is a criminal?"

Basil rose to his feet and pointed to the envelope at her feet. "Why is the address on the envelope nonexistent and addressed to your father, Miss Brandt?"

She took a deep breath in preparation for her rehearsed lines once more. "It was prearranged so the letter would not be sent to this flat. All of those letters that do not have addresses are often left at that shack by the docks. I was to pick up the letters with this false address so no one knew I was receiving them."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," said Basil. "Why do you need such secrecy?"

She closed her eyes. "That's a long story that will probably seem petty and ridiculous to you, Mr. Basil."

"I have the time," he said, slowly sinking back to the couch.

"And this has nothing to do with my parents?" she asked, directing her question at Dawson.

"I can assure you it does not," he replied.

She folded up the letter in her lap and set it aside. "I have known Shaun Parker for two years now. It started when my parents encouraged my sister's courtship with a man who everyone knew I had been attached to long before she developed any sort of affection towards him. I understood that the young man in question loved my sister better than I, but I did not understand why my mother forced me to give my sister permission to date the fellow. I had peaceably spoken to neither my sister nor my mother for several months due to the pain and rejection I felt by my own family, and had joined the club to get away from them for several hours every week.

"Shaun's club for young men actually included myself and another young woman, Elizabeth Weigold. It was for young people who had an interest in history as well as war games. He'd tell us, for example, the historic events leading up to the Battle of Thermopylae, what happened during the battle, and its aftermath. Then he'd have the club actually play the battle with his miniature lead soldiers. Most of the boys, and perhaps Liz, came for the games. I came mainly for the history lectures that Shaun held at the beginning of each club meeting. My parents did not like it because they said it made me strange to potential suitors, but they did not fight it much because it got me out of the house so my sister's suitor could feel more welcome in our home.

"Two months after I had joined the club I developed my own affection for Shaun. It's uncanny how it came about; he's very intellectual, but can be shy to those he doesn't know very well. He never had a reason to be shy when the boys were around, but one day I arrived at the club earlier than the others while he was setting up a new game. After exchanging pleasantries we fell into a rather awkward silence. I then asked him a question about whether Poland and Lithuania, when Napoleon liberated them from Russian rule, had wanted to be liberated. His face lit up, and he began to answer the question eagerly. He finished his explanation after the others had entered the room, so we did not have much time to talk after that. But I knew somehow, after that conversation, that I admired him and hoped that one day I would find someone who derived as much pleasure from talking to me as I did from him.

"Shaun was friendlier towards me after that. Over the course of eight months the affection grew as we became good friends. After club meetings when the other would go home, Shaun and I often frequented restaurants or coffee houses to continue talking about aspects of history, or any other topic that came to mind. He found out that I had written a novel, and had begun to help me edit it. We started to exchange letters to continue our conversations on the days on which the club did not meet. And I found myself obsessively talking about him.

"My parents were not pleased with this, as you may imagine. They began to insist that his club was a scam that he had set up with which to seduce young ladies. That, of course, was ridiculous, considering that most girls I know have no interest whatsoever in war or any games relating to war. But I could not reason with them, so I began to lie about times when I would see him outside the club.

"One day Shaun and I were talking about my novel, and he noticed I was sad. I don't know why, but he embraced me and what happened next seems so silly, but… neither of us let go. It was then I realized my affection for him was shared. So we began to talk about the practicality of courtship. We decided it was not practical, but we would continue to see as much of each other as we could until it could become more practical, like when I had been away from my parents for a little time and he had gotten into a university for the study of history, which he had been working on.

"My parents found out about our feelings for each other when my sister intercepted an incriminating letter. They were scandalized, especially since Shaun is twelve years older than I and has no prospects they respect. They threatened to cast me out on the streets if I didn't write him a letter immediately ending our relationship. I sent the letter, but continued to meet with him in secret. I was a governess for awhile in Leeds.

"He was upset while I was in Leeds, however. We rarely saw each other, and the distance was quite a strain. He also wanted to get married, but my unwillingness to leave my family led to many arguments between us. In desperation for enough money to support the two of us he took up as a mercenary with the German army to fight in South Africa. My governess job ended when the family moved away and I came here to London. He left soon after.

"We worked out the plan for exchanging letters, our main form of communication, so my grandfather would not come across them and tell my parents that I am, indeed, still speaking to Shaun Parker against their wishes. I plan to tell them one day, but only when we have enough money to get married and live, if not in riches, then in comfortable poverty."

She fell into silence. Dawson and Basil exchanged uneasy glances.

"So what does that picture refer to?" Basil asked, motioning to the picture of the field of flowers lying on top of the letter.

"It's a reference to a daydream he painted out for me in a previous letter," she said, turning red. "We'd have a beautiful house in the country and I'd come home from the market or wherever to find him sitting outside, reading in this field of flowers. He would not notice I was there until I had greeted him hello with a kiss."

"Oh." The detective looked disappointed. He then perked up almost as quickly. "Why does your grandfather bring home your letters?"

"Have you been watching my grandfather?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes."

"Why?" she asked, folding her arms. "What has he done wrong?"

"Miss Brandt, we meant no harm," Dawson interjected. "We just wanted to make sure this letter was real, not fictional."

She sighed. "The first few times I was able to receive the letters from Shaun with no trouble. Unfortunately I had not counted on my grandfather. Most of the people around here rarely check the unofficial post for mail, and I thought my grandfather would do the same. I was not aware he checked it every evening. One day when I was sick he picked up one of my letters."

"Why did he think it was his?" Basil asked. '"It doesn't have this flat's address on it."

"To be honest, I don't know. I think he just glanced at the name and thought it was his without referring to the address. When he read the letter later on he discovered that it was actually addressed to his granddaughter. I had to explain the entire situation to him. He agreed to keep it a secret, mainly because he is upset with my parents. They rarely visit and he takes it as a personal affront. Keeping my secret ensures that I stay here and take care of him."

Dawson stared at Basil. His face showed no expression, but his eyes looked shell-shocked, staring straight ahead at the end table on which the letter and medal had been placed. The doctor then turned his attention to the girl. "Miss Brandt, are you all right?"

She jumped and turned towards him. "Why… why do you ask?"

"You look sad."

"Shaun's not in any trouble, is he?"

"None, now that you have explained the situation," Dawson said with a reassuring smile.

"And you weren't sent by my parents?"

"No."

She sighed in relief. "You scared me when you began to ask about Shaun. I was afraid that this secret love affair had been found out by the wrong people."

"Your secret is secure with us," Dawson said, rising to his feet. "Well, we won't take up any more of your time."

Basil automatically followed suit, as if walking underwater.

Lydia walked them to the door. "Please, if you see my grandfather, don't tell him you were here. It'll just give him reason to doubt all the good I have told him about Shaun."

"Of course not, Miss Brandt," Dawson said, taking her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Mr. Parker is a lucky man indeed."

She gave the doctor a weak smile.

"Thank you Miss Brandt," said Basil, more out of politeness than sincerity.

Lydia closed the door behind them. Then she leaned against it and slowly slid to the floor, feeling exhausted.

A minute later she heard a slight knock from the next room. Lydia dragged herself to her feet and crossed the parlour. She opened Mayhew's bedroom door.

"Why didn't you let me out earlier?" Bob snapped.

"I wanted to make sure the detective was gone," she said. "Now how did I do?"

"Good enough, I guess. Boss'll be pleased if the detective doesn't come back." The thug threw himself onto the couch that Basil and Dawson had just vacated.

Lydia took her letter and the medallion and went into the kitchen. She sat back down at the table and raised the letter. But instead of reading the letter she found her eyes on the partially polished medallion. She set the letter down and, taking up the rag, began to rub the medal clean.

* * *

"What is the plan now?" Dawson asked cautiously as the duo walked down the street.

Basil shook his head. "I should have asked for her parents' names, contacted them to check the veracity of her story."

"Basil! We promised not to tell her parents!"

"No, we did not. You just assured her we weren't sent by her parents."

Dawson sighed. "Please, old friend, give it a rest! The poor girl doesn't need any more strain. Didn't you notice her condition?"

"How could I not? She nearly fell apart when I pointed out that Crimea medal in the couch."

"She appears to be suffering from hysteria."

"Is that all?"

"Her tendency to get easily upset, her low self-esteem, probably brought on by her family's rejection, and her fiancé as a mercenary in a foreign land? I wouldn't be surprised if it was hysteria that had unhinged her so."

Basil shook his head. "But who puts a medal that she's _polishing _underneath a good cushion?"

"The cushions were faded and torn, they weren't good furniture."

"They're probably the best her grandfather owns."

"She could have been too panicked to think straight when she put the medal there. It's not uncommon in hysterical women."

"Perhaps," Basil said. "No matter. We're going back to Baker Street."

"Is the case of the _letters de l'amour_ closed, then?" Dawson asked.

"Not unless I go back and do some more questioning."

"Why? You saw the original letter we had left for her within that book in the parlour, meaning that it hasn't left the house and gone to Ratigan for some devious purpose. She explained that the picture was a memento of her and Shaun's ideal future life together, not the setting for some place where a crime is supposed to take place. The letters are harmless."

"Something just doesn't seem right here," said Basil, shaking his head. "My hunches are usually on the mark."

"Everyone can be wrong about something," said Dawson quietly.

They walked on for several minutes. Finally Basil said, "You're right, there's not enough evidence to encourage further search. Close the case, doctor."

In his mind, however, the detective was determined to figure out why a Crimea medal had been hidden underneath a couch cushion.

* * *

Meg: You know how I said that I was informally engaged and I would not explain why right then? Lydia and Shaun's story is essentially that explanation. I met my boyfriend shortly before I finished "Every Rose Has a Thorn." Within ten months my parents threatened to not pay for my college education if I pursued a relationship with him because he's twelve years older than me and does not make a lot of money. I have had to keep the relationship from all but two of my family members and many of my friends to ensure it remains a secret. We've discussed marriage extensively, and although we both would like to get married we both know it isn't practical right now. We're keeping everything under wraps until I graduate, and become formally engaged sometime after that.

As romantic as this may sound to some people, it is actually a stressful and sometimes miserable situation. My parents constantly harp on me because they think I can't get a date and am not a personable girl, while the distance between my boyfriend and I ensures that we hardly see each other. I have to lie to a lot of people and make up stories in order to conceal this secret life from my family, which sometimes backfires on me.

Lydia's explanation is not a complete chronicle of her life since she met Shaun, however. Stay tuned for the entire story in subsequent chapters.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

* * *

This extremely long chapter (14 pages!) literally took me weeks to write. I wrote, rewrote and deleted parts constantly. If you notice any sloppy mistakes please let me know—some of the parts were finished up rather quickly for the sake of getting it published to the web.

By the way, the human world and the mouse world is parallel- what happens in the whuman world also happens in the mouse world. I don't know what mouse cavalry would look like. Maybe with dogs?

* * *

"Perusing your pocket watch isn't going to make them come down here any more quickly," Basil said, leaning back in an armchair, smoking on his pipe, in the parlour of the Fremlys' house.

Dawson sheepishly placed the mechanism back in his pocket. "We're going to be late. I thought that, even if Isabelle could not get dressed on time, Meg might force her to it."

"I've timed Meg. She takes exactly two hours, bath, coiffure and all, on Sundays."

Dawson shook his head.

"They've been here since two this afternoon," Basil continued. "It's ten to seven. They've had nearly five hours. So let's assume that Isabelle and Meg are getting ready at the same time. They cannot bathe together. So if the bath takes, say, half an hour each, and drying their hair takes about an hour, then they have to curl it and style it, which can take another half hour to 45 minutes—"

"If it was any other man describing this process I would have assumed that they were a cross-dresser or a scoundrel," said Dawson.

"—then they have to get into their undergarments, stockings, dresses, shoes, and apply cosmetics, which I can't imagine all together would take more than half an hour. Of course I am allowing them time for talking or helping the other one with something. So we have a maximum of three hours. They should have been done two hours ago."

"So what is holding them up, great detective?" Dawson asked.

"I will only be able to tell when they come down here." Basil tapped out the ashes into a nearby ash tray. "Doctor, now that we have some time, I would like to inform you of some recent developments on the Lydia Brandt _lettres de l'amour_."

The portly mouse turned around. "But… but Basil, I thought that case was closed one month ago! You yourself said there was no evidence to continue the case!"

"It started out as mere curiosity, really," the detective said. "Few people received both the Victorian Cross and a Crimean medal. I ran through the names of the recipients in the National Registrar. No Edward Brandt received both medals. One received the Victorian Cross posthumously, after the Crimean War had ended. No Edward Brandt received the Crimean medal."

Dawson raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps the grandfather lied about where he received them. Or perhaps she misunderstood him. He is mute after all."

"I asked around the Brandts' neighborhood. No one knows the grandfather's real name even though he has lived in the neighborhood for well over two decades. They call him Mayhew. The girl, however, has been seen for several months, although no one knows her name either. So I looked up 'Mayhew' on the register of Victorian Cross and Crimean medal recipients. There was a Henry Mayhew who received both decorations."

The doctor moved to a chair near Basil and sat down, suddenly interested. "Who's Henry Mayhew?"

"Well, he was baptized in St. Elizabeth Parish outside of Surrey in 1831, and he enlisted in the army in July 1849. He joined the 11th Hussars and was trained in cavalry. He had reached the rank of captain by the time of the Crimean War broke out. Dawson, he fought at the Battle of Balaclava. He was in the famous Charge of the Light Brigade."

The doctor's jaw dropped. The Charge of the Light Brigade had to be the most disastrous miscommunication in British military history. A misinterpreted order had sent 118 cavalrymen to their death charging into a valley, surrounded by Russian artillery on three sides. The cavalrymen had managed to force the Russian artillerymen away from their guns, but not before they had inflicted heavy losses. The courage of the brigade and a description of the battle in Lord Tennyson's poem "The Charge of the Light Brigade" ensured the immortality of the men who had taken part in the deadly enterprise.

"Are you suggesting that Lydia's grandfather was this Henry Mayhew who fought and survived the Charge of the Light Brigade?"

"There is one more thing you should know before jumping to such conclusions," said Basil. "Henry Mayhew received some severe wounds during the battle. He caught some shrapnel in his left leg and his throat during the battle which sliced his vocal cords. He nearly bled to death, but survived and was sent back to England after he had sufficiently recovered from his wounds in March 1855. Unfortunately his leg was maimed, so he could never ride a horse again."

"What happened to him after that?" the doctor asked.

"He vanished from the records."

They sat in silence for some time, Dawson pondering what it meant. "So what if Henry Mayhew has changed his name to Edward Brandt?" he asked. "What difference does that make? The veterans' services in England are poor indeed."

"Why change his name in the first place?"

"Maybe he is ashamed of his past."

"Perhaps. But how does Lydia carry his false last name?"

The door to the parlour opened, and Meg and Isabelle entered the room. The two mice rose to their feet.

Meg's chestnut brown hair was pinned up and decorated with a few pink rosebuds. Her gown was pale blue embroidered gauze with garlands of tiny pink rosebuds at the neck and on the skirt, a secondhand dress she had managed to purchase at a thrift store. Basil smiled, but his but his eyes quickly shifted to Isabelle and remained there. Dawson also looked at his fiancée in awestruck wonder. Isabelle radiated fashionable beauty. She wore an evening gown of lemon-colored satin painted with up and down her dress, with a shaped flounce of lemon-color mousseline under a ruffle of mauve mousseline, and jeweled butterflies on her sleeves and corsage, her hair neatly pinned up and decorated with several jeweled butterflies.

Dawson stepped forward and took her hand. She beamed at him. He slowly lifted his hand to her face and caressed her cheek. All semblance of the Light Brigade had been obliterated from his mind.

* * *

Renée Lyon jolted in rhythm to the trot of the horses pulling the carriage, holding a black mantle tightly around her feminine frame, her hair piled high and loose on her head. Eddie sat next to her, uncomfortably hunching his shoulders together so as not to touch her shoulder. His oversized glasses, along with his faded black, second-hand suit and yellowed bow-tied made him look out of place, as if he belonged more among dilapidated files and dusty tomes rather than attending the social engagement of the season. John Gault and his wife, Elise sat across from them, wearing clean, crisp dress clothes. Beneath Elise's cream-colored mantle Lyon could make out the tulle of a white dress, while Gault sat rigid and resigned to spending the evening in his uncomfortable tuxedo. The two couples had decided to split the costs of a cab by sharing one together, a decision which Lyon, much like her decision to come to Sir Jenners' ball, she already regretted.

"I still can't understand why you couldn't have taken your good gloves _off_ to open the door," said Elise for the fifth time as she pulled out a compact mirror from her purse.

"How was I to know there was grease on the handle of the door?" said Gault in an irritated tone.

"You should have _looked,_ darling," she said, lightly touching a pimple on her chin as she inspected it in the mirror. "You never look—you leap before realizing there's a deep chasm below you."

"I'd hardly classify a grease stain as a chasm."

"It'll be a great embarrassment. Imagine, tonight of all nights! You better not shake Sir Jenners' hand and get grease on his glove. I'd be so mortified!"

Gault leaned his head against the carriage window. "I can just take the glove off."

"Don't do that!" she exclaimed, pulling his head from the glass. "You'll smudge it. And you'll look ridiculous without your gloves on."

Lyon and Eddie held their hands over their mouths to stifle their giggling as Gault lightly applauded her. "Good job, Mrs. Gault. You managed to use one sentence to relate to two different actions."

She folded her arms. "Don't change the subject."

"No dearest, I am admiring your outstanding command of the subtleties of the English language."

Eddie and Lyon shook in silent laughter as Elise glared at her husband. "Are you making fun of me again? How many times have I told you not to make fun of me in front of others?" She turned towards the couple across from her, forcing them to straighten their faces. "I do apologize for my husband's atrocious behavior," she said to them.

"It's quite all right…" Eddie began with an amused grin as the wagon jolted to a stop.

Lyon leaned over Eddie to look out the window at Jenners' mansion, lit up and crowded with horses and carriages everywhere. Their own carriage was last in a long line of carriages waiting to arrive at the door.

"Let's get out here," said Gault. "It'll take a few minutes to get through that, and we'll owe the cabbie more if we get off at the door."

"No," said Elise matter-of-factly. "We'd look silly and cheap. It's so ungentlemanly, pinching pennies the way you do."

"We can't afford not to pinch pennies, the way you spend my money," Gault responded in exasperation.

"It's one night, John."

"That's what you said when you bought the dress, and that diamond necklace, and those new shoes."

"This isn't just any night!" Elise said defensively. "It's the social event of the century! Miss Lyon, how much did you spend on your entire ensemble for tonight?"

Lyon shrugged. "I owned the shoes previously. The dress is left over from a social gathering I covered for the paper two years ago with extensive alterations. I can't afford any jewelry, so the only cost was the dress."

"How much was that?"

"Well, not cheap, but cheaper than a new dress."

Gault beamed at her. "There's a sensible girl! And she looks just fine without the latest 'thing,' my dear."

Elise shook her head and covered her eyes, as if shielding herself from the shame she could only imagine for the young woman's outfit. "You should get married! Then your husband could buy you some pretty new things for such occasions."

"_Elise!_" Gault growled, his voice growing dangerously testy.

"Is there a lucky man, or…" she trailed off as her eyes fell upon Eddie. She crinkled her nose, then looked pleadingly towards Lyon for verification that the bookish mouse was not her love interest. Lyon glanced at him too—his face had turned a deep shade of red.

Gault rose to his feet and bent over his wife in the small space. "Out. _Now._"

"Really, John, you don't have to shove me!" she cried as he opened the door and roughly helped her out.

Gault rolled his eyes, muttering, "I am so sorry," to his underlings before exiting himself.

"She never ceases to amuse me," Lyon said with a grin as she stood up. "She can make any situation awkward without realizing it."

Eddie nodded halfheartedly as he helped her out of the carriage.

Lyon stepped gingerly on the slick sidewalk as she looked up at the crowd of mice around Jenners' door. She closed her eyes, her heart beating fast. She hated most social ceremonies such as balls herself; the people were dry and dull, with little to talk about. Judging from the familiar public figures Lyon could see disembarking from expensive, elaborately decorated carriages, Jenners' Christmas ball did not appear to be any exception. She had not been invited herself—Jenners had only extended invitations to the males at the paper. Those invited had been encouraged to bring a wife or a sweetheart, so Eddie had asked Lyon to accompany him. He had looked forward to the social engagement as if it held all the secrets of earthly happiness. She looked forward to it like one looks forward to seasickness.

The past few weeks, for her, had been long and arduous. The hostility between her and Jenners had permeated nearly all aspects of her life. Her assignments had been dull and thankless. Her only writing for _Aline_ had consisted of reviews of women's cookbooks or those fashion pieces she loathed so much. Her duties for _The Daily Press, _however, were a string of dull social events and empty interviews with socialites. Once in awhile she was thrown a bone to cover a city council meeting, which did not say much, as meetings were also notoriously dull. Lyon learned to take a little pride in being handed those stories, however, by rationalizing in her mind that the meetings' outcome was the concern of each voting individual in London.

She did not see Jenners too much herself—the only stories he appeared to personally edit himself were the socialite stories. He had many important friends in some of those stories who he did not want to insult. He was still rude to her, and once she nearly got fired for retaliating with a few choice words on his professionalism towards her. Now she was afraid to even go back to the office after a story to write it up for fear of seeing him and receiving more criticism.

She had never felt lonelier in her life. Eddie had tried to ask her to dinner a few more times, but she had managed to excuse herself. She was only accompanying him to the ball tonight to make up for the times she had turned him down.

The cold winter air stabbed her lungs as she took a deep breath. She missed Ratigan's company. She even missed the gruffest of his thugs, many of whom she had come to know on previous trips to the sewers.

Instead she allowed Eddie to help her up the stairs into the foyer of the house, where servants took the guests' wrappings. Lyon handed one servant her black mantle, revealing an evening gown of rose and white mousseline with mother-of-pearl spangles. Her sleeves draped in one long, loose puff to her elbows, and a high-draped belt of rose taffeta was wrapped around her waist.

Eddie gaped at her. He slowly offered her his arm. "You look beautiful, Renée."

A brief flash of pink highlighted her cheeks. "Thank you. You look very handsome yourself," she said.

They followed Gault and his wife to the ballroom, where Jenners stood, greeting his guests. Lyon watched the rat as he patted some men on the back and warmly kissed the hands of some women, while barely bowing to other women. She narrowed her eyes as Jenners gave Gault a cordial handshake and what could be best called a heavy nod to Mrs. Gault.

When Eddie and Lyon approached, Jenners shook Eddie's hand briefly, but did not even say his name. Lyon wondered if he even remembered who Eddie was.

She gave Jenners a quick curtsey. His eyes flashed towards her, sharp and expressionless. He motioned to the butler, standing nearly with a list. "Victor, is a Renée Lyon on the guest list?"

Those in line behind her began to murmur amongst themselves, pointing to the potential party crasher. Lyon's face turned bright red as Victor flipped through the pages.

"She's, she's my guest," said Eddie, tugging nervously at his collar. "Under Edward Williams?"

"Renée Lyon, right here sir," he said, showing it to Jenners.

"Thank you, Victor." Jenners turned sharply away to the next couple. "Why good evening, Mr. Van Daan, Mrs. Van Daan! It is a pleasure to see you this evening!"

Lyon and Eddie walked away, both feeling mortified. "Can we leave yet?" Lyon asked, trying to make her honest question sound like a joke. Eddie looked at the floor.

"This isn't how I thought this evening would go at all," he said glumly.

She grasped his hand and gave him a weak smile. "Just because Sir Jenners does not like me does not mean we can't enjoy ourselves. Look, there's John Priestly over there by the windows with his wife and a few of the boys from the office. I want to make good on my threat to find his wife a new husband if he doesn't dance with her."

Lyon pushed her way through the group with Eddie following close behind, unaware that a tall, broad mouse in an elegant tuxedo, round glasses and full black beard watched her move across the room.

"'Oo eez ze boy?" he asked, bending down over Josiah Baldwin, the senior editor of _The Daily Press_.

"Eddie Williams, Lawrence Gault's secretary."

"So she eez engagé?"

"No. At least I don't think so."

"Ah." The mouse watched the duo as they joined a group of mice near the windows. "Do take me to zis Meester Campbell now, Meester Baldwin. I 'ave a question to ask of 'im."

* * *

"Dr. Dawson, you're an excellent dancer," I said as the doctor twirled me across the floor.

He grinned. "I took lessons."

"When you were younger?"

"Well yes, but… I took them again after I met Isabelle. Remember the ball we attended on that yacht in Shanghai last year?"

"How could I forget? The party was crashed by pirates!"

"Well, I stepped all over her feet at that ball. When we returned to England I took up dancing classes again so if I attended another ball again, I could save her feet the pain and myself the embarrassment."

"That's so sweet!" I exclaimed. "Basil's such a good dancer but he doesn't want to. He keeps saying he'll do it later."

"I'll turn so you can see," said Dawson, moving us and slowly down in his pacing. "Look behind me."

I looked. Isabelle had her hands folded and appeared to be reprimanding Basil.

"Hah! Good for her!" I said, smiling.

The song ended, so we returned to Basil and Isabelle, the former muttering a few words to her which ended her tirade. Her eyes shot over to us, and then appeared to look past us. She broke into a fake smile.

"Okay David, take me out now," she said as the next song started up.

"Let me rest for a little bit," said Dawson. "I can take you out during the next song."

"David, Mrs. Beechwood is on her way over here, and if she dares begin a conversation with me I will rip her hair out with my---"

Before Mrs. Beechwood could make her way over, however, Isabelle was assaulted from behind by a young woman with black hair and overly blushed cheeks. "Isabelle Fremly! Is that really you?"

Isabelle turned around, her false expression still plastered on her face. "Oh, hello Nell! I had no idea you were invited."

"If you actually took the time to visit me I'm sure you would have found out," the woman said, looking curiously from me to Basil. "Good evening, Dr. Dawson. Well Izzy, are you going to introduce me to your other friends?"

"Miss Fremly!" another voice said from behind me. I turned around. An elderly woman with light, graying hair pushed her way into our group.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beechwood," said Isabelle, barely veiling her disappointment.

Mrs. Beechwood fell upon Nell, and her eyes narrowed. "Miss Fremly."

"Mrs. Beechwood," Nell coldly replied.

"Is your mother here? I have a few words to exchange with her," said Mrs. Beechwood.

"Mama was not feeling well."

"Hah! You Fremlys never had much in the way of manners. Not you, of course, Isabelle, your father was always a polite, well-mannered man…"

"_I beg your pardon?" _Nell exclaimed.

"Ladies, would you please continue your little dispute somewhere else?" said Basil, brushing a piece of string from his suit. He pointed to a group of women of various ages talking in hushed tones from several paces away. "I believe those ladies would be a much more interested audience in your argument over Miss Fremly's broken engagement to your son, Mrs. Beechwood."

"Well I never! Mrs. Beechwood huffed. "Who are you, sir, that you speak to me so impertinently?"

"Basil of Baker Street, ma'am."

Mrs. Beechwood glared at him. "I know of you, sir. You're nothing but a no good busybody who gets his nose involved in perfectly respectable people's private lives."

"You're Basil of Baker Street? Oh, Mr. Basil, thank you so much!" said Nell, shaking Basil's hand. "I broke off the engagement to Freddy Beechwood as soon as Izzy showed me the evidence you found that he had a mistress!"

"Such falsehoods!" Mrs. Beechwood exclaimed. I noticed that the group of women had begun to move closer. "Your slanders have been nothing but an unnecessary embarrassment, Mr. Basil! I demand an apology!"

Basil leaned against the wall and said nothing.

"I can't believe it! I am going to have a word with Sir Jenners personally about having you thrown out!"

Basil shrugged. "Do as you wish, madam. Now if you'll excuse me…" He made as if to leave, but was stopped by one of the group of women. "Mr. Basil of Baker Street? Is it really you? Oh, I've read all about you from your stories published in _The Strand_ _Magazine_!"

The other women took it as a cue to join our group. They were soon followed by some of their husbands. I moved closer to Dawson and Isabelle. The doctor excused himself on the pretense of getting some drinks. Isabelle shot me an exasperated look.

"Nell's my cousin," she explained as Mrs. Beechwood stormed away in a huff. "She has a tendency to pick out unsavory suitors. I asked Dawson if he and Basil would follow her fiancé two months ago to verify the truth or falsehood of allegations that he had a woman on the side."

"How come no one told me this?" I asked.

"Fred Beechwood did not go to great pains to hide his affair, so it only took them about a day's work to find the necessary evidence. I brought the pictures to Nell myself."

"Still, how come no one told me of this?"

"Perhaps they thought you'd find it unimportant. You had only begun your job with Jenners a few days earlier."

I looked back at the crowd around Basil, feeling thoroughly annoyed.

"Let's see how good your skills of observation really are, Mr. Basil," one woman said. She spread the folds of her white gauze dress with mother-of-pearl on her bosom and a high-waisted blue satin belt. "Where did I buy my gown?"

"You had it made by that highly skilled seamstress Madame Amilee whose shop is located in the basement of that notary on High Street," Basil said languidly.

"Wrong! It was made it Paris by a tailor in the Mattimé boutique on the Champs-Elyssée!" the woman exclaimed, looking proud of herself. "It's the exact dress found in the magazine _La Belle Fleurette._"

"Ah, but that gown held a mother-of-pearl design in the shape of long petal clusters. Yours is short-petal clusters. The neckline of your dress is also too straight; the original gown had a slightly curved neckline that enunciated the curves of the feminine bosom. That blue belt about your waist is also made of satin, while that in the magazine is made of silk."

The woman turned bright red and bent her head down as the others laughed at her.

"All right Mr. Basil, where is this cigarette case from?" one man asked, producing a gold cigarette case."

"Palermo, Sicily, made by Tousli and sons."

The ladies squealed in delight as the gentleman affirmed Basil's answer. They began to point to various pieces of their outfits and bombard him with questions:

"How about my diamond ring?"

"These shoes?"

"This pearl necklace?"

"Which florist did my orchid come from?"

I sighed as Basil began to answer each question. "They're acting like his skills are some sort of game!"

Isabelle shrugged. "They've all been dying to meet him, although they are also afraid to meet him. He has ruined many reputations in this room, and I wouldn't be surprised if someone else tried to tell him off or have him kicked out."

Dawson came back with three champagne glasses. I took mine and excused myself, hoping to get away from the mob that surrounded the great mouse detective.

I scanned the crowd for a familiar face, a sudden urge to talk to Sir Jenners arising within me. The illustrious man was nowhere in sight. So I slowly made my way through the mass of suits and gowns, just taking it all in. I heard snatches of dry conversations and laughter which tinkled more like broken glass than with charm.

Then I sighted Renée Lyon with a small group of men and women, most of the females in second-hand, outdated dresses like mine. I approached their group and tapped Lyon on the shoulder.

The young woman turned around and her eyes widened when she saw me. "Miss Sarentis! Good evening!"

"Miss Lyon," I said softly. "May I have a word with you in private? Please?"

She cocked her head, appearing curious. "All right," she said slowly. She turned back towards her group and excused herself. She then stepped away and faced me. "Yes?"

I shook my head as the nearby orchestra struck up a song. "Let's go somewhere quieter," I said, standing on my toes and scanning the crowd for an opening. A set of French doors leading out into the garden caught my eye. I motioned for Lyon to follow as I headed towards the doors.

One minute later we pushed our way outside to the stone terrace, to where several couples sat chatting in low tones. The cold winter's air was refreshing after the humidity of the crowded ballroom. We wandered over to the far edge of the terrace to a stone railing which looked out over the withered shrubbery and dead stems of flowers which had once been green and brilliant. I glanced down over the railing and was surprised to see Sir Jenners below us with several men, the largest and broadest of them speaking to Jenners in broken English. I backed away from the railing a little bit, hoping my voice would not carry over.

I shuffled my feet nervously and took a deep breath, the air searing like a knife in my lungs. "Miss Lyon, I wish to apologize for being so rude to you," I said, looking at my feet.

"When?"

"Well, most every time I speak with you."

"Oh." Lyon grasped her hands and looked back inside at the lights and colored gowns.

"Basil told me about you warning him that Ratigan was watching Jenners' mansion," I continued. "You took a great personal risk in doing that. Thank you."

She turned back towards me. "I try to impart what information I can to keep others safe, Miss Sarentis."

"Havers." I said it simply, with no harshness in my tone.

"Oh dear, I am so sorry," she said, cringing. "He always referred to you using your maiden name, Mrs. Havers, although I should know better. To be honest, I doubt I would know of you if it wasn't for my interviews with him."

"What does he say about me?"

She shrugged. "I've tried to push the subject, but he has only referred to you as a means to an end, at least considering the plot for the Danish throne three years ago."

"Oh."

We stood in awkward silence for a few moments, and the conversation between the men below us wafted up to our ears.

"As Mr. Campbell here may have told you, I only just bought the paper last month," Jenners was saying. "I am not looking to sell anytime soon."

"But eet eez not doing well?" the large, portly mouse said in his thick French accent. "Eet 'as done very worse than under ze last owner."

"Monsieur Rongeur, those are only the results of the very first month!" Jenners said as his companions laughed. "That does not mean I am ready to give up on this business venture. On the contrary, it is spurring me to keep with it."

The large mouse shrugged. "You are not a journal man. Ze business is difficile. Most fail at eet."

"I will take that as a friendly piece of advice instead of the insult it appears to be," said Jenners in a tone bordering on anger. "I am an experienced businessman and Englishman, Monsieur Rongeur. I know what I am doing."

Rongeur held up his hands defensively. "Do not be offend, Meester Jenner."

"What does a Frenchman want with a British paper anyway?"

"Eez personal interest. My paper eez good, looking for more, more hard work."

"What interest is it of yours to be involved with English politics?"

The large mouse stood taller and folded his arms, as if challenging Jenners. "That eez my business, not yours Meester Jenner."

"But it is my business," Jenners said. "This is my country. That is my paper. You have no right to get involved, you French frog."

I gasped, shocked at Jenners' deliberate display of disrespect. No one called a Frenchman a 'frog' to be polite. A hush fell over the group, as if they were expecting blows to break out.

Rongeur appeared to understand that he had been insulted, but was not sure how. "Frog? Frog. What eez a frog?" he asked.

"Une grenouille," Jenners said.

It was Lyon's turn to gasp.

"Zis eez what you English call a French, a bad name?" he asked.

Jenners shook his head in amused disbelief and opened his mouth as if to speak. But before he could get a word in Rongeur swung a punch at him which Jenners barely had time to block. They began to rain blows upon each other, with the men around them shouting for them to stop or egging them on. The couples from across the terrace joined Lyon and I at the railing as the men broke them apart. Jenners had a bloody nose, and a few tears on his tux, but Rongeur had turned away from the group and had his hands pressed on his head.

"Monsieur Rongeur, you are no longer welcome here," Jenners gasped, trying to catch his breath. "My men will escort you out."

Rongeur turned back to Jenners. His lower lip was a bit swelled and his tux had a few tears as well, but he appeared to be in better shape than Jenners. "I came 'ere with nothing but good intentions, Meester Jenners. You began ze insults over business. I will leave on my own time." He then turned and walked off into the gardens.

The spectators looked at one another. Jenners glared up at the people on the terrace. "There is nothing to see here!" he said sharply.

Lyon and I quickly withdrew, too embarrassed to face him. I looked at the ballroom, surprised that the music was still playing and no one inside had any knowledge of the brawl we had just witnessed.

My eyes shifted to Lyon, but she was facing the gardens. I remembered the conversation between her and Jenners I had eavesdropped on several weeks ago, and suddenly felt embarrassed, as if my friendly association with Jenners was something to be ashamed of in her presence.

"I better go back inside," I said, my cheeks flushing red. "Basil will be wondering where I am."

She turned back towards me. "All right. But Miss Saren... Mrs. Havers, please, if… if Professor Ratigan does manage to kidnap you, heaven forbid, don't tell him I warned you," she whispered. "He'll have my head."

My stomach grew sick at the thought of even seeing Ratigan again. "I will not tell him anything."

"Thank you."

* * *

Lyon remained outside, watching as Jenners hurriedly disappeared into the house through a service door so his guests would not see his battered state. The couples vanished one by one soon afterwards to spread news of the brawl.

She strolled towards the stone stairs that led down into the gardens, shivering as a gust of cold wind brushed against her. She made her way down the stairs and out into the dark gardens, her eyes searching for the large Frenchman.

A minute later she heard a voice behind her say: "Ah, Meess Lyon." She turned around. The Frenchman was behind her. He took her hand and kissed it. "What a pleasure eet eez to see you."

She shook her head in disbelief. "And who may you be tonight, professeur?"

"Jorge Rongeur, French businessman and, apparently bruiser of Sir Algernon Jenners' inflated ego," the rodent said in perfect English, bowing to Lyon. "Now the question is, how did you know the alter ego was full of crap?"

She giggled. "Your wig slipped off a bit during the brawl. I saw you straightening it afterwards."

Ratigan gingerly touched the gray wig. "I hope no one else did," he said. "I didn't expect to punch him when I did, but that man is certainly a bastard. Too much of an Anglophile for his own good. One has to wonder how he ever manages in international business. Really, calling a Frenchman a frog over nothing! I thought the stories about his temper were gross exaggerations until tonight."

She shivered a little bit. He took off his jacket and offered it to her. She eagerly accepted it. He offered her his arm and she took it, strolling with him on the gravel path as the sounds of the party faded away.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you hated balls."

"Oh, it's Eddie," she said. "You know, Larry's secretary, the one I've told you about who tries to court me. He invited me to go with him and I didn't have the heart to turn him down. And you?"

"I was invited, as Monsieur Rongeur of course," he said. "Some of Jenners' business deals and mine coincide through my Parisian branch of the Seven Plagues. I decided to save my main man there the trouble of coming to this little party by attending myself, and see if I could wrangle a newspaper out of the deal. It's no secret that your paper's profits have plummeted since the switch-over and Jenners is fuming about it."

"It wouldn't be so if he would actually listen to his editors and reporters. He's turned the paper into a socialite column, not a news source."

They walked on in silence. Lyon looked up at the stars in the clear night sky, and felt at peace for the first time in over a month.

"Did you try to buy the paper for my sake?" she asked.

"Yes."

She shook her head. "Don't do that."

He laughed. "I'll do as I damn well please, little lady."

She playfully smacked his arm. "Don't call me 'little lady.'"

"What should I call you? How about 'beautiful?'"

She broke away from him and folded her arms. "How much have you been drinking?" she asked, her tone teasing. "You have never called me 'beautiful.'"

"Yes I have, plenty of times. You are beautiful. You are particularly beautiful tonight, as I noticed while you were standing out on the terrace watching the aftermath of the brawl, the light from the ballroom shining golden and brilliant on your figure."

"You noticed me with Megana Sarentis standing next to me?"

The criminal mastermind gave a little start as if caught off guard. "She was?"

Lyon cocked her head sideways. "You… you didn't notice her at all?"

Ratigan looked baffled by himself. "There was a woman standing next to you on one side and a man on the other, yes, but I did not look closely at the woman at all. That was really Megana?"

"Yes."

"What were you talking about with her?"

"Just small talk."

Ratigan opened his mouth, but then closed it. He shook his head and offered Lyon his arm again. She considered the arm like one considers pulling her hand in a bear trap.

"Come on," he whispered. "Back to the terrace. I can hear Jenners' men looking for Rongeur in the shrubs."

She took his arm and they retraced their steps, walking in long, rapid strides. "I have good news for you," he said in a low voice. "Nickels has informed me that the king is no longer funding Jenners' hunt for me through you. Jenners was forced to call off the men he has tailing you. It'll be safe to come back to the lair by Tuesday."

"Really?"

"Yes."

She was so happy she nearly embraced him. "Finally! I have so missed seeing you."

"I've missed you too, Rose.

Her happiness, however, was short-lived as she recalled her conversation with Meg not half an hour earlier. She walked on in silence, her thoughts searing into her heart.

"James," she said as they arrived back at the steps, "are you planning on kidnapping Megana Sarentis anytime soon?"

Ratigan stopped in his tracks. "Why do you want to know?" he asked suspiciously. "You never want to know about my crimes."

"I know, but… If she's at the lair, I… I don't want to be there. I can't be a part of that. Basil somehow figured out that I see you regularly. And it would be too strange, me there, considering our past, our…" she trailed off.

Ratigan led her up the stairs. "Are you asking me to leave her alone after all the plans she has helped Basil foil, after all of the difficulties she has created for me?"

They arrived back on the terrace, bathed in yellow light and devoid of guests. Lyon took off his jacket and handed it back to him. "I just want you to understand."

His eyes met hers, and he suddenly looked sad. He put the jacket back on. The lights in the ballroom dimmed as the low, drawn-out notes of a violin introduced a waltz.

He bowed to her. "May I have this dance?"

She stared incredulously at him. "Here? Now?"

"Of course."

"Are you trying to change the subject we were discussing?"

He shook his head and offered her his hand. "No. One dance, Rose. Then we can discuss all you wish."

Her eyes traveled around the terrace as another gust of wind whipped the folds of her dress, blowing them behind her. No one was in sight. She believed that the pounding of her heart, the knocking of her knees as she curtsied and took the hand which he offered her, was only nerves from being caught associating with the Napoleon of Crime. But as he placed his large hand on her slender waist and pulled her close to him, she realized that she was most afraid of being close to him.

He led her across the stone terrace, wheeling and spinning her in time with the music, the act so forbidden and yet so euphoric. She looked directly into his eyes, never taking them away, even with his disguise seeing nothing but him. She knew it was wrong, that she was breaking every rule she had carefully established for herself, but she had never felt so alive.

She had no idea how long they remained there, locked together, but she felt as if she was walking on air, rising with the cold wind, he as her only companion in an eternal dance, far away from the reaches of the world. She held onto him until she was numb and could not feel, or think, but only be!

And suddenly, like a spell, the clapping of hands as the music stopped met her ears. They slowed their movements until they, too, became inert, his hand still on her waist, her hand still on his shoulder, their other hands entwined together.

She did not resist when his lips met hers, she pressed hers more firmly against his as her mind protested the violence of the act, _no, no, NO!_

He broke away violently as two groups of mice entered the terrace; one from the ballroom, the other from the garden.

"That's him!" one of the men from the garden called out.

"Bon soir," he murmured before heading to the ballroom, Jenners' men following close behind.

Lyon stood, dumbstruck, as the group from the ballroom headed towards her. "I say Renée, is that the fellow who roughed up Jenners?" she heard Gault say. "This couple here was telling us all about it."

She nodded dumbly.

"What happened?"

"Jenners… Jenners insulted him. Called him a… a French frog."

"Why?"

"He… he wanted to buy the…the paper."

"Were you _dancing_ with him?" Eddie asked, sounding hurt.

"Yes. I… I wanted to get the… the story…" she murmured.

* * *

Lydia sat on the couch, with Mayhew in the rocking chair, as a fire blazed in the fireplace. The old mouse leaned back, his eyes closed, at peace. Lydia had a book open on her lap, a lantern on the end table. She looked up at her companion.

"If you are tired we can stop for the evening," she said softly.

He slowly opened his eyes and smiled, shaking his head and motioning for her to go on.

She took a sip of tea from a chipped cup next to the lantern. Replacing the cup on its saucer, she bent back over the book and said, "This one's called 'Passion.'" She cleared her throat and read:

"Some have won a wild delight,  
By daring wilder sorrow;  
Could I gain thy love to-night,  
I'd hazard death to-morrow.

Could the battle-struggle earn  
One kind glance from thine eye,  
How this withering heart would burn,  
The heady fight to try!

Welcome nights of broken sleep,  
And days of carnage cold,  
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep  
To hear my perils told.

Tell me, if with wandering bands  
I roam full far away,  
Wilt thou to those distant lands  
In spirit ever stray?

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;  
Bid me--bid me go  
Where Seik and Briton meet in war,  
On Indian Sutlej's flow.

Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves  
With scarlet stain, I know;  
Indus' borders yawn with graves,  
Yet, command me go!

Though rank and high the holocaust  
Of nations steams to heaven,  
Glad I'd join the death-do-"

She stopped abruptly as the creak of the back door reached her ears, and several footsteps tapped upon on the wooden floor. Ray, the shift's designated guardian, came into the room followed by Frank, Bob, Mikey and Gerard.

Lydia snapped the book shut and poised herself to run at the latter's entrance. Mayhew had risen to his feet.

The albino stepped forward and inspected the room with his hands behind his back, savoring his presence after so many weeks of absence. "Time's up, old man. The Boss has rejected your request. The girl goes back with us."

Mayhew made a strange, gurgling guttural noise, his only form of verbal expression, as Lydia ran to him. She clung onto Mayhew's arm as to a window ledge high above a street when one is about to fall. "No!" she cried. "Professor Ratigan said I'd have to stay just a few days ago, in case the detective came back! He told Mr. Mayhew I'd stay!"

"He changed his mind. Ray, get the girl's bag. Mikey, make sure any evidence of Lydia's presence here is eradicated. Lydia, come here."

She held more tightly to Mayhew's hand. "Please…" she murmured, tears in her eyes. "Please, just a little while longer…"

"What, you don't want to go back to the sewers?" Gerard asked, his tone cold and mocking. He took a step forward. "Why not, Lydia?"

"Please…" she began to sob. "Please, I can cook and clean and take care of Mr. Mayhew, please let me stay, oh please…"

"Get her."

Bob and Frank rushed forward. She threw her hands around Mayhew as to a lifesaver. He pulled her towards him and held her tightly in an embrace meant to shield her from the thugs who then ripped her out of his hands.

"No!" she screamed.

Mayhew let out the guttural cry again and lunged for the thugs, but it was Gerard who shoved him back, knocking the old man into the rocking chair. He fell to the ground in a heap, aware of nothing but the searing pain in his back and the broken sobs of Lydia.

"She was never yours," Gerard said. "You knew we'd be back for her. You don't get to determine what happens to her. So you better forget about her."

He turned back to the other thugs. "Gag her and let's move it out."

The girl's sobs were quickly muffled. Mayhew began to rise to his feet as the two who held her dragged her out of the room. Gerard gave Mayhew a sharp kick, sending him back to the ground.

"Don't worry old man, I'll take good care of her for you," he said with a wolfish grin. "It'll be my pleasure."

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Mayhew heard the door slam behind them as the entire crew left. He slowly got up and stumbled through the parlour and the kitchen to the back door. He looked out into the dark winter's night. Even the echo of their footsteps on the pavement had vanished into the blackness.

* * *

Meg: The poem which Lydia reads is "Passion" by Charlotte Bronte. Reference to the Charge of the Light Brigade was actually inspired by Iron Maiden's song "The Trooper," which is about the charge. Renée Lyon's personal dance with the devil is to the song "Dark Waltz" sung by Hayley Westenra.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

* * *

Meg: I know, it's becoming a mantra: I'm sorry about the lack of updates. I hate not getting chapters up on a regular basis. I thought, with this research project, that I'd have more time to write, but I already spend so much time at my computer for research or writing my research paper that in most of my free time I just don't want to look at a computer screen anymore.

I am also going through a lot of changes in this time of my life, along with all the stress that accompanies said changes. It's becoming a struggle to keep up with everything, including my sanity. Please bear with me; I am trying my hardest to keep up with this story and maintain the high quality of writing I always strive for.

* * *

It was the Monday following Christmas. Basil escorted me to the cul-de-sac on which Jenners resided for another day of cataloguing. The detective had slowed down to a leisurely stroll, a significant change from his habitual long, rapid steps.

"You don't have to go back, Meg," he said.

I shook my head. "My father used to tell me that Sarentises never quit."

I had told Basil about the fight between Rongeur and Jenners to save myself the discomfort of him asking about it later, knowing that he would find out through the grapevine anyway.

But telling him had not gotten rid of any uneasiness, however. The experience shook me up more than I had thought at first—it was a continuation of the behavior I witnessed Jenners display to Lyon one month earlier. I wondered if I was next to experience his attacks—I was neither a native Brit nor a rich man. So I also told Basil about the incident between Lyon and Jenners as well, hoping for some sympathetic words. Basil's words were somewhat sympathizing, but mostly cold, hard practicality.

"Well, he hasn't said anything negative about you," said Basil. "But no one would blame you for feeling uncomfortable. The man appears to have the worst case of xenophobia I've seen in anyone of his stature. He's dealt with foreigners for years, and has considerable diplomatic skills. So why would he even dare call a Frenchman a frog?"

Lyon's interaction with Jenners really set Basil to thinking. He began to wonder if the purchase of _The Daily Press _had an alternative meaning which dealt with Lyon, one that had nothing to do with tracking Ratigan.

I, meanwhile, began to seriously have second thoughts about working for Jenners, doubts which I expressed to Basil, Dawson and Isabelle later on. Isabelle tried to defend the rat who she knew so well from her social activities. Dawson was torn between supporting Isabelle's views and Basil's suspicions. The detective had straight out told me that he'd rather I stayed away from Jenners, but the decision was entirely mine.

After much deliberation I decided to see how Jenners acted around me when I went back to work after Christmas. It had been nearly a week since the incident, so perhaps I had exaggerated what was simply a rare overreaction on his part.

Basil and I arrived at the door, me feeling nervous, the detective's face unreadable. He nodded towards the door. "Have a good day, Megana," he said, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

I embraced him. "Thank you for being so supportive."

He offered me a small smile. "I have nothing planned thus far today. Send for me if you need to leave."

"Ceratinly. Good day, Basil."

He left.

I entered the house and went up the flight of stairs to the library. Upon opening the door the place was dark and cold. No fire had been lit, no lights were on. I was relieved at emptiness of the room. I kept my cloak on as I turned on the gaslights. Then I sent about to my work.

Halfway through the morning Eliza came into the room, interrupting me as I placed an extra copy of a pamphlet by John Milton on the donation pile. "Miss Meg! What are you doing here?"

I bit my lip, feeling like I was doing something wrong. "I usually come in here and work."

"Oh," she said, laughing nervously. "I thought you had a longer holiday. Here, you must be chilled to the bone in this room. Let me light the fire for you."

"Thank you Eliza. May I inquire to the whereabouts of Sir Jenners?"

"Gone away on some business trip or other," said Eliza as she placed a log on the grate.

"When's he due back?"

She stuck bits of paper around the log. "I dunno, miss."

I walked over to the table, where my typing lay in neat piles. I reached for another book on the stack of books next to me, but then hesitated.

"Eliza? May I ask a question?"

"Yes'm?" she asked, not looking up from her work.

"Does Sir Jenners easily lose his temper with others?"

She shot me an uneasy glance. "What do you mean?"

"Sir Jenners was in a fistfight with a Frenchman at his party last week."

"Ah. Yes."

"So you hear about it?"

"Heard about it? Who didn't? The entire staff knew of it, the fuss he was makin' after the fact! Don't I tell you, Miss Meg, he's not one to burst out like that, but when he does—" She stopped abruptly. "I shouldn't be talking about such things. I'll just light this and get on my way."

"No!" I exclaimed, going to her. "Eliza, I want to quit."

The girl looked surprised. "Why?"

"I saw the fight. The Frenchman threw the first punch, but Jenners started the fight. He provoked the man he fought with. It seemed so unlike how he acts around me. And yet I hear rumors of ungentlemanly and rude behavior to others, especially women. Is all of that true?"

Eliza looked around her, as if afraid someone was listening who would report her words back to Jenners. She then lit a match and held it to the newspapers in the fireplace. The flame quickly took to the paper.

She turned back toward me. "All I can say is what I've seen for meself, Miss Meg. He makes fun of the ladies at his dinner parties, but leaves the men alone. He yells at me and Fannie, who try to do everything to his standards. He barely even shoots the grooms a dissatisfied look when they are tottering over, drunk, on a Sunday morning. I can't explain why. But the fight you saw does not surprise me in the least."

I sighed. Eliza got to her feet and patted my arm. "He's never said anything amiss about you that has gotten back to me, and I hear quite a lot here. You're one of the lucky ones."

I gave her a half-hearted smile, still nervous about what to expect from Jenners when I next saw him. "I hope you're right."

* * *

Lyon walked through the sewer pipes that Saturday, the clomp of her boots echoing off the sewer pipes as they splashed through the dirty water. Although Ratigan had told her that Jenners' boys would be off her tail by Tuesday, she had waited until now for several reasons.

The first was in case Ratigan was wrong, and the spies were not sent away. At least it was a convenient excuse in case the Napoleon of Crime asked her why she had delayed her first visit in two months. The real reason for the hesitation, however, was to sort out her emotions after the Christmas ball. Ratigan had broken a cardinal rule of their relationship—keep it platonic.

It was not the first time he had kissed her since her days as his henchman. Over the course of three years the relationship had been tumultuous. Lyon had sworn the day she left Ratigan and shed her identity as Rose McGeady that she would never again love James Ratigan. And thus far, she had never broken that vow—she had built her defenses to be strong against him. It had not been hard to—there had been a three year gap in which she had steeled herself against any sort of male affection, and almost immediately after he had reconnected with her three years ago he had become involved with Megana Sarentis.

Lyon witnessed the change that came over him after his failed attempt to take over the Danish throne, especially after her interview with him; he became distant, even disinterested, as if his social calls were fulfilling an obligation of which he did not want to have any part. She bore three social calls of this nature before she confronted him about it. He denied that he was bored. She insisted he shouldn't come if he would not be friendlier. They had had a row which ended in her throwing him out of the flat and telling him to not come back until he actually wanted to be there. She had leaned against the locked window of her flat after that quarrel, feeling numb inside. She thought he would never come back; she had read about Meg Sarentis's difficulty in obtaining a divorce from the criminal mastermind. She could only surmise that the rat was blackmailing the courts to retain the false marriage. To her it was the only sign she needed to see that he had found yet another woman to be infatuated with who did not love him. Little Rose was once again in the background.

Much to her surprise and chagrin he came back two months later, a bouquet of primroses in hand and tail between his legs. She received him coldly, sitting at the opposite end of the room as he apologized profusely for his behavior. His words fought hard against the stone walls she had built around herself. It was only when he told her that she was his only friend did he break through and she relented, not out of pity but out of empathy. She knew she was as lonely as him; she had few friends, and none who mentally stimulated her as he did.

The relationship took off well after that. That first year he visited her flat and tried to avoid mention of his plans, his crimes, and anything else which related to his profession. Lyon did not bring up the events she read in the papers—the kidnapping of Lord Godfrey's oldest son, the murder of a page in the House of Lords, the second kidnapping of Meg Sarentis, the murder of Joshua Havers, the slave trade in China, the theft of some artifacts from several museums in London, the destruction of the First Bank of London. Their conversations focused on her career, gossip on the royal family, discussions on scientific, historic, medical and anthropological discoveries, literature, and amusing stories of Ratigan's criminal past. In the process she found out quite a bit about his past life, and he learned her entire personal history. She learned he had been engaged to marry Rachel Dunlap in his youth, but she had broken the engagement in favor of pursuing a wealthier and more personable suitor. Lyon learned the number of mistresses he had had, the start of his criminal career and his first encounters with Basil. In her spare time she wrote down the stories. She felt it was her duty to make sure this incredible man's life experiences were not forgotten.

It was the start of the second year, 1902, when Ratigan kissed her. He had sat at her desk while she sat at the kitchen table, chattering one January evening. She went over to the desk to find the notes to a story she was currently working on to show him some point or other. She had leaned over him, holding onto his broad shoulder for support as she searched her messy desk for the notes. She found them within moments, and started to straighten up, but she noticed he was staring closely at her face. She turned her head to face him, and he impulsively leaned in and kissed her.

The young woman had not resisted for several moments, trying to figure out if she wanted to be kissed by him. A few stones crumbled from the fortifications of her heart. A short mental and emotional tug-of-war ensued, and the practical side arose the victor, much to her relief. She pulled away and shook her head. "No. We can't," she said firmly.

"I know," he replied with disappointment in his voice. He then asked her about the notes in her hand. As she flipped through her notebook she thought she caught him wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Shortly after that he invited her to come down to the lair whenever she felt like it. She liked this better than the visits in her own small flat—Ratigan was too big to comfortably move about in her small garret room. But she avoided contact with the thugs; most of them were new fellows, not the seasoned criminals of the 'good old days,' as Ratigan called the period before the Diamond Jubilee. She disguised herself so they could not report her presence to the police.

Lyon was not sure what to make of Ratigan. He played both cool and affectionate with her. He'd go through periods of sending henchmen to her flat to fix a broken windowpane or a servant girl to clean her flat when she went on long-term assignments far from London. It was these times he kissed her again. The second time it happened, and every time after, Lyon pushed him away and affirmed her unwillingness to pursue a relationship. So he would ask her to sit down and talk with him about it. Each time, about an hour or two after the conversation began, Ratigan said he agreed that it was a bad idea.

After these talks he usually disappeared for a few days or weeks, eventually surfacing with a brilliant new scheme. He would completely immerse himself in the scheme, leaving little time to talk to anyone. Once the scheme had succeeded or dissolved into disaster, he began his kindnesses towards Lyon once again.

Once, after a period of affection and a subsequent kiss, Lyon asked Ratigan why he was interested in a relationship with her when, by all reports, he seemed infatuated with Megana Sarentis. He had waved his hand at her and told her that Meg had nothing to do with their relationship.

Lyon did not agree. His cycles of affection and coolness followed a pattern that generally, with exceptions, fit crimes which involved Miss Sarentis. The first kiss had happened several months after Joshua Havers' death, the second after the death of pirate Xing Ryu, the third after the incident involving Standard Oil in Texas. But if Ratigan was unwilling to discuss Megana then there would be nothing Lyon could do about it. All she could do was continue to barricade her heart against his advances. It was not difficult to do; her mind was set on one goal only: to advance in her career as a journalist and a writer.

She knew the turning point in their relationship which had led to this moment of indecision on her part. It was after Ratigan's failed kidnapping of Megana Sarentis and four other women last October. Lyon had avoided the lair during the kidnapping, but Megana's rescue had forced the criminal mastermind to move the location of his lair. So Lyon did not come to visit him until he had given her directions to the new location.

When she did come she saw that Ratigan had fallen into one of his dark moods that she experienced all too often five years earlier, when she worked for him. He glared at her as he played his harp, muttering evil things under his breath. She called off work and took control of the lair, kicking the thugs out of his presence and reverting back to her former role as his servant girl by preparing his meals and cleaning the mess left after one of his fits subsided.

It took him two weeks to calm down enough for her to feel it safe enough to leave him by himself so she could return to her job. She knew, however, that he would never be truly safe, not unless he got some sort of professional help. She was afraid to approach the subject in the weeks that followed.

His thugs, as far as Lyon could tell, had not done much since the Megana Sarentis kidnapping. Ratigan kept himself locked up in his quarters, ignoring his men when he did come out. It was a drastic change from the flamboyant criminal mastermind's normal behavior. She feared that he had become irreversibly unhinged.

She stopped by the lair nearly every day to check on his condition. She usually found him sitting in a maroon armchair in his study, wearing a dressing robe, reading the newspaper or staring into the fire. He appeared happy, sometimes even grateful to see her, always greeting her with a smile. He'd have tea and biscuits ready, and they'd sit down and discuss the news, or her work day…

The journalist lifted the grate and pulled herself onto the cold, stone floor of the lair, breaking out of her reflections. She entered the barrel, and then passed on into the study, where Mikey, Frank, Bob and Ray were playing cards.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Lyon!" said Mikey, rising to his feet. He gave a small bow. "Haven't seen you in ages. Any particular reason why?"

She shrugged. "Just been busy. Is the professor in?"

Frank nodded. "He may be still meeting with Mayhew."

"I'll just wait outside. Thank you."

She headed to the hallway and down to Ratigan's office. She saw Gerard leaning against the wall, the light from the cracked down creating a stripe of brightness on his suit. She began to greet the thug, but stopped when she heard Ratigan's voice from within.

"She was enjoying herself up there too much. It's meant to be a punishment, Mayhew, not a holiday!"

Several long moments of silence followed, in which Gerard gave Lyon a half-wave. Then:

"I do not want to hear about that incident ever again! The boy did his time on Darby Road, and he is not eager to come back. He knows the consequences of disobeying me!"

More silence.

"I don't care about that goddamn leech! This is not about the girl, this has never been about the girl!"

Lyon shot Gerard a confused glance. The thug paid no attention to her, wearing a smug grin as he brushed his claws on his jacket and examined them.

"Why do you care so much about that girl, Mayhew?"

Gerard sniggered, and then grew quiet. It had to have been about a full 60 seconds before a crash and the temperamental tones of the Napoleon of Crime reached their ears:

"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK, IT"S NONE OF YOUR CONCERN!"

Lyon had had enough. She walked past Gerard, who hissed, "What are you doing?" as she knocked on the door.

"WHAT?" the criminal mastermind screamed.

The young woman poked her head into the room. The old mouse Mayhew stood in front of Ratigan's desk. The rat had been leaning over the desk, his chair upset and upon the ground, his face red in anger, his body rigid from the strain. "Is this a bad time?" Lyon asked innocently. "I can come by tomorrow…"

The blood drained from Ratigan's face. "Nonsense, sit down!" he said, motioning to a seat.

She entered the room. Ratigan's body suddenly relaxed. He sighed and waved his hand at the old mouse. "The answer is no. You may see her in passing, but do not make it a habit of coming down here. You're much more valuable to me on the surface. Now go."

Lyon observed Mayhew; his broad shoulders sagged and narrowed, and his head fell low upon his chest. He slowly turned, the picture of defeat. She tried to offer him a smile, but he didn't even raise his eyes to her as he passed.

When Mayhew left the room Lyon went back to the door and fully closed it. She then came over to the desk, where Ratigan was pulling up a chair. "I expected you on Tuesday," he said.

"Oh dear. I am so dreadfully sorry," she said, mimicking the nasally voice of a stuck-up rich woman. "I hope you didn't have tea and crumpets set out for me."

He chuckled. "No crumpets, but I did make muffins," he teased. "After all that trouble I went through, too, just for you!"

"Oooh, I would have loved some of your muffins!" she said, sitting down in the seat he offered. "You'll have to make them again for me."

"Not a chance, missy! That was a one-time event which will not repeat itself." He sat on the edge of the desk, looking down at her.

An awkward silence followed. Lyon recalled such a silence during a visit to the lair last March…

_She entered his study one evening to a surprising scene. The usual tea and biscuits had been replaced with champagne. The dressing robe had been exchanged for his signature suit and opera cape. He stood by the fire, holding on the mantle, but warmly took her hand and offered her a seat and a glass of the sparkling wine. She declined on the latter, and commented on the change—were they celebrating something?_

_She saw him truly scared for the first time in her life. But he quickly regained his cool and, kneeling next to her, said: _

"_Rose, will you marry me?" _

_Lyon was too stunned to say anything. She had no idea how long it took, but it was enough for Ratigan's face to fall. He had fumbled around for a ring, but didn't even open the box. The entire thing had been so awkward that her answer came out in a small, scared whisper:_

"_Why?"_

_He had been taken aback. "What do you mean, 'Why'?"_

"_Why, after all the times I have rejected your advances, would you want to marry me?"_

"_Because I think we can make each other happy."_

"_You said that once before, remember?"_

"_I have always believed it to be true."_

_She placed her face in her hands and groaned. "We have such a good thing here. Why would you ruin it like this?"_

_He said nothing. _

_She took deep breaths. Then, lifting her hands from her face, she looked him squarely in the eye. "I love my job, my career. You love yours, which would make it impossible for me to have mine."_

"_We can work it out."_

"_Can we work out where we'll live? You cannot live on the surface, and I refuse to reside in this soul-devouring underworld of yours."_

"_I can wear disguises--"_

"_What if we had children? Would you wear your disguise around them all the time, or just at home? That would be a great danger of exposure!"_

"_Children? Well, we can discuss that—"_

"_What about Megana Sarentis?"_

_He stopped. "What about her?"_

"_I thought you were 'pursuing' her, or whatever you call that terrorizing you do to her."_

_He narrowed his eyes. "She's not relevant."_

"_Hah! Try assuring me you won't pursue her again if we marry."_

"_If we marry, I will remain entirely loyal to you."_

"_Said the man who left me for Rachel Dunlap five years ago."_

"_That was so long ago, Rose. Surely you can forgive me my past?"_

"_Not when your present hasn't changed one bit."_

_Ratigan abruptly stood up and turned away, as if it was painful to look at her. The clock ticked, filling the silence with its awful, empty echoes, like the throbbing of a wounded heart…_

"So you escaped Jenners' party in one piece, I see," said Lyon.

"Yes, I did, but just barely. They managed to knock me about with some canes before I was fully off the premise."

"Ouch."

"How was the rest of the party?"

"Dreadful…" she hesitated, and the added, "…without you. Seeing you was the most interesting thing that happened all evening."

"Really? No intriguing men to talk to, or dance with?"

"I shared a few dances with Eddie and John Priestly, but that was it. You were by far the best dancer."

"Hmph." He pulled out a cigarette and reached for his lighter. "Writing anything for the magazine yet?"

Lyon felt a little melancholy as she began to tell Ratigan of her work. She had hoped he would continue on the strain of dancing.

As they talked, she felt the fortifications around her heart begin to shake. She began to wonder: after all of these years, had she once more fallen for him?

* * *

Meg: A filler chapter, more or less to set the stage for the next chapters. Please let me know if this chapter was just totally ridiculous—I don't think it's one of my better ones. If Ratigan is terribly OCC, or this chapter just sucks in general, please review and let me know so I can rewrite it. Hopefully it explains some more things without turning Lyon back into the lovelorn Rose McGeady.

I also promise there will be more action in chapters to follow.


	17. Chapter 17

Meg: Yes, I am well aware that I have neglected this story for one and a half years. Yes, that does make me a jerk. No, it was not intentional. There were personal issues involved with the delay of this story. I will try to make it up to you all by finishing it as soon as I can.

* * *

Jenners did not come back to his townhouse for several weeks. Victor said that he had gone to France on business; Eliza said he was hiding on the Continent to escape the embarrassment of losing the fistfight against Rongeur. Rumors of the fight had spread in the upper echelons of society, or so Isabelle told me, and Jenners faced considerable scorn when he came back.

I tried not to think about Jenners or high society's opinion about him. My own opinion about him was becoming too much for me to handle. Basil had told me about how he had brought down Renée Lyon's status in the print journalism world. I had not told him that I had spoken to Lyon, but I assumed he knew about it. Basil made a living through his perfect observation of even the slightest details.

I myself had picked up on some details. Basil accompanied me to and from work like a guard dog, much as he had before he became engrossed in the Lydia Brandt letters and spent the evenings bound to my side, leaving only to investigate the cause of a scattered pebble or creaking floorboards.

One evening as he put off playing his violin for the fifth time in a 45 minute period to step quickly outside due to a noise Dawson and I had not heard, I set down my sewing and followed him. A drizzly freezing rain had made the front steps slick with a light covering of ice. I placed one foot in the partially open doorway and another on the stoop, using my back to block the doorway and prevent loss of heat in the flat.

The detective stood on the bottom step without jacket or dressing robe, hands in his pockets, staring out into the dark street. He looked relaxed, as if he was enjoying the rich scents of spring rather than a winter ice storm.

"Basil, what are you doing?" I asked quietly.

"A cat passed by," he said, as if commenting on the weather.

"Ratigan's?"

"No. He hasn't had a cat since Felicia."

"What if he trained a new cat?"

"Perhaps," said Basil, more out of politeness than sincerity. He turned around and came back up the stairs. I retreated into the warm flat, Basil following. He closed the door and strode back to his chair.

"Basil, may I ask a question?" I said, locking the door and following him.

He picked up his violin and began to tune it for the sixth time that evening. "Hm?"

"Do you think Ratigan will strike soon?"

His fingers moved rapidly across the strings, plucking out a scale in three octaves. "No."

"Really? Then why were you outside just now?"

"Just testing my faculties."

"Why? Is there something wrong with them?" I asked, trying to sound sarcastic.

Basil chuckled. "No, not at all." He began to play the opening strains of one of Dawson's favorite tunes. "By the way, I must attend to some business early tomorrow morning. Megana, do you mind going to work tomorrow without your escort?"

I raised both eyebrows in surprise. Dawson's head shot up from his checkbook, as if he, too, was astounded by the answer.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"Meg, your tone sounds as if I had just admitted to having a mistress on the side."

"I am shocked. You haven't let me out of your sight for months."

"Not months, but weeks." Basil stopped playing, placing his violin on his lap. "Three weeks, to be exact. I have neglected some other responsibilities in the interim, most notably the disappearance of Miss Lydia Brandt. I wish to visit her grandfather tomorrow to find out what has happened to the girl."

"What about Ratigan?" said Dawson. "You've been jumping up at the slightest noise for the past three weeks. Meg and I were sure that Ratigan was tightening his reins on her, the way you've been acting. It's had even Mrs. Judson on edge!"

Basil stopped playing and set his violin aside. He leaned forward, lightly touching his fingertips together. "On the contrary, my dear doctor, I believe that that stinking sewer rat has let off."

"'_Let off?'"_ Dawson and I exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yes."

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

"It's amazing, really, how Ratigan worked. The peanut seller we pass each day by Mr. Grogan's tailor shop stopped showing up three weeks ago. That beggar at the south entrance to Hyde Park has also been absent from his habitual post since January 5. The house on Fairfax way had rooms to let again a day later. And that maid at 130 Hatterly has stopped staring as us she whitens the front stoop each morning."

"Those mice were Ratigan's agents?" Dawson asked.

"Precisely."

"And that house?"

"Ratigan rented a room there."

"How did you know those mice were working for him? And that house belonged to him?"

"I knew the maid was an associate; not a very good one at that. Turns out she is currently going with one Pat MacArthur, nicknamed Slug. He's a petty swindler and burglar, but word on the street is he's now working for Ratigan. The disappearance of the beggar and the peanut seller was the clue to their identities as Ratigan's cronies. The house was one I had been specifically looking for each morning- a curtain on the second floor sometimes moved almost imperceptibly whenever we passed. It stopped nearly three weeks ago, when the rent notice was put up. If these little peculiarities had kept up, I might have never known for certain that some of these were associated with Ratigan."

The fire popped and crackled in the fireplace as Basil finished. Dawson and I glanced at each other. I was suddenly overcome with a shaking fear.

"Basil, what if it is a trick, some sort of mad scheme of Ratigan's?" said Dawson, turning to the detective. "He reveals his agents, lulling you into a false sense of security?"

Basil chuckled appreciatively. "False sense of security? My dear doctor, you yourself noted that I have scrutinized every little movement or noise that has come my way these past three weeks. Ratigan would have had to replace those agents with other ones. But no one has replaced the peanut seller or the beggar. While the maid remains, she has stopped paying attention to us. I have not noticed any other activity out of the ordinary. Even this flat used to have its regular stalkers, but they, too, have mostly gone. Ratigan appears to have packed up and left."

"What does that mean?" Dawson asked.

"I don't know," said Basil thoughtfully. "I have a theory, but I would have to see the professor himself in order to test it out. If my theory is correct, then I think that Ratigan has more pressing matters than Meg. Her presence in his life would only complicate those matters."

"What are they?" Dawson asked.

Basil waved his hand as if sweeping away Dawson's words. "It is too underdeveloped a theory to reveal at present, and still too many unanswered questions. I need more data."

"So now it's suddenly all right for me to be up and about all by myself?" I asked, sounding more panicked than I had hoped to convey.

"I can accompany you if walking unescorted frightens you," said Basil gently. "But you yourself said when you first took this job with Jenners that you wished to have your independence from me."

I bristled at the detective's use of my own words against me. "You have conditioned me to expect the worst from Ratigan if ever I dared to venture out by myself. It's become a habit, a sort of security blanket, to have you there."

"To suddenly stop seems absolutely foolhardy!" Dawson added.

"If she wants me to escort her, all she has to do is ask," said Basil reaching for his violin once more. "Just let me know before eight tomorrow morning."

"I'll go with you," said Dawson, turning to me.

"You will do nothing of the sort!" Basil said sharply. "She will go with me, or she will go alone."

"_Excuse me_, Mr. Basil!" I snapped, throwing down my sewing. "I _will _go alone, but not because _you _say so! Good night, Mr. Basil! And… doctor," I said a little more gently, nodding to Dawson. I then stomped up the stairs to my room.

I turned on the gaslight in the small, frigid room and began to undress for bed. I tried to think of the possible cause of Basil's insanity. My thoughts turned to Renée Lyon. She had come to the flat this evening. Basil and kicked Dawson and I out of the parlour to speak with her. They spoke for half an hour before Lyon raised her voice. She left shortly after that.

I recalled that Basil had said, a few weeks ago, that Lyon had told him that Ratigan was, indeed, watching my movements. I wondered if their meeting this evening had anything to do with Basil's sudden laxity on my personal safety.

* * *

Lyon had to wonder about her own safety as she disembarked a carriage with the assistance of Professor Ratigan. A scarf and a heavy cloak obscured his features; he still wore his signature top hat, however. Gerard and Mikey ran ahead of them, calling out orders to the rodents above a rusty old sloop tied to the dock.

Ratigan offered the journalist his arm. She gingerly took it, noting the warmth that radiated from it.

"Does the crew know the purpose of the expedition?" Lyon asked.

"No. Just Gerard and Mikey."

"Pardon me for asking, but…" she motioned her head towards the two thugs, "…can Mr. Ward and his brother be trusted?"

The criminal mastermind crinkled his forehead, pursed his lips and tilted his head, creating an expression of offense at her questioning. "Why would you think that I would hand you over to the care of untrustworthy men?"

"I didn't mean to give you the impression that I did not approve of your choice of caretakers," Lyon began cautiously. "It's just… they don't know me well enough. I don't know if they can be trusted enough to watch my back in a particularly difficult situation. I'm no longer one of them, not like I was when Gerald Caster, Karl Dresner, and Jack Doonegan were still around."

Ratigan patted her right hand, holding onto his left arm, with his right hand. "Gerard has just been relieved from service on Darby Road. He knows my high regard for you, and will ensure your personal safety, if only to be sure that he is back in my good graces. Otherwise he will be sent back to Darby Road… or worse."

"Darby Road?"

"Yes."

Receiving no further clarification, Lyon tried again. "What is the significance of service on Darby Road?"

Ratigan lightly chuckled. "I sometimes forget what part of my operations you have little to no knowledge of. None of the boys have spoken of it to you?"

Lyon shrugged. "Your men seem to respect me well enough, but we're not chums."

"You've never come across it in your research on Dagnar, then?"

"No. Should I?"

"Perhaps not," Ratigan said.

"What is it, then?"

He heaved a sigh. "Darby Road is a stain on my reputation, as well as an impediment on my operations. It's a long stretch of country road outside the city, favored by smugglers and cutthroats for its relative privacy and proximity to a crossroads with direct routes to five major cities. It's here that the main battles on the ongoing war between Dagnar and I take place."

"Ohhhhh," Lyon said, suddenly understanding tidbits of conversations she had heard over the past several months. "You've been using it as a form of punishment on your men, haven't you?"

"In a way."

"Dagnar attacks your smuggled goods operations?"

"And I his."

"What is the collateral damage?"

"Not much. There's usually harmless shots in passing. I increase the number of men on patrol to seize convoys that I know specifically belong to Dagnar—if a convoy of his comes upon us unexpectedly, the few men normally on duty are supposed to do all that they can to sabotage the mission without taking careless risks. Dead men are no good to me in this situation."

The two stopped at the foot of the gangplank leading up to the sloop. "Sounds like a newsworthy story to me," Lyon said, half-jokingly.

Ratigan said nothing. He hunched over, disappearing into the folds of his cloak and, with a mumbled command for Lyon to wait where she stood, he ascended the gangplank. He came up to Gerard and one grizzled old mouse in a greasy green cap and fell into a discussion with them.

Lyon shivered, and lightly hopped on her tiptoes to create a little warmth. She had a familiar pounding of the heart and sickness of the stomach that normally accompanied the start of particularly difficult news stories. It was almost as if her body was warning her that the story she was looking to write would be a complete failure, one that might end her career. She had experienced the feeling many times before, most notably during every story of her first six months as a regular journalist, before she had departed for South Africa to cover the Second Boer War, and before the release of each of her feature stories on Ratigan.

This time the potential career-ending move was deliberate disobedience to her boss, Sir Jenners. Lyon had recently become despondent at work due to the restrictions on her job. Although, as of late, the absence of Sir Jenners' physical presence had created a more relaxed atmosphere among the editors and staff members of the newspaper, Lyon still felt haunted by his lack of confidence in her abilities as a journalist, which had reawakened some dark thoughts about her own worth.

Over the past few weeks, she had begun to confide to Ratigan the return of these negative feelings. Initially he had tried to lift her spirits with kind words of encouragement. The more he praised her, however, the less convinced she became of the veracity of his words. When he saw that this particular tactic was not working, he switched to a more active one.

"When will Jenners be back from the Continent?" he had asked her three days earlier. They had been sitting on opposite ends of a couch in front of a crackling fire in his private sitting room.

She shrugged. "No one knows. He telephones every day to instruct the editors and his lawyer regarding the business, though. Rumors are going about that he'll just turn into an absentee owner like Brenkus."

He scratched his chin and stared into the fire. She leaned back into the crevice of the couch where the arm met the back and closed her eyes, enjoying the heat that spurted on her in short, opposing waves from the fire.

"How is the Dagnar story progressing?"

Lyon let out a sarcastic guffaw, keeping her eyes closed. "Progressing? Jenners told me to let it alone."

"So did Basil of Baker Street and myself. It's strange how we couldn't stop you but the aristocrat could."

Her eyes flew open. She straightened herself in her chair. "I'm not about to lose my job over Dagnar by disobeying my boss."

"And yet you were willing to lose your life over Dagnar only weeks ago."

Lyon shot him a look of exasperation. "If you continue the conversation in this manner then I will leave."

"I am only making an observation."

"A biased one. I've already told you that I would not put my life at risk for a news story. I am not _that_ obsessed with my job."

Ratigan shook his head. "You're letting your job bring you down."

"No. I am only letting Sir Jenners bring me down. Until recently, I loved my job for the most part. I thought I was competent at reporting and good at writing. Now I have no real outlet with which to improve those skills."

"Would continuing the Dagnar investigation help?"

She gave him a long, hard look, trying to read his face. It was expressionless.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, 'What do I mean?'"

She rolled her eyes. "Are you suggesting that I continue hunting down your criminal enemy at the possible risk to my own life that you have constantly pointed out to me in the past?"

"Yes, if it would increase your feelings of self-worth. I do believe it would succeed with the proper protection."

She opened her mouth to protest this sudden change in his views when he cut in.

"Of course, I want something out of the bargain. All of your findings will have to be reported back to me, so I can take proper action against Dagnar."

She closed her mouth, bit her lower lip, and stared at the dancing flames of the fire. Despite the warmth they brought her she could not suppress a shiver of fear at the idea of playing Ratigan's game against Dagnar. At the same time, she could not help but think that Ratigan had other motives in mind than to rid himself of his criminal rival.

"Everything I have learned about Dagnar was provided by your own contacts," she began cautiously. "It appears to me that you have had to means to find Dagnar on your own for months now."

He chuckled. "While that is true, you used the resources I provided and came up with results. It was not _my men_ who traced Dagnar to Maidenhead, as you did. I believe we can help each other—I provide the protection you need in order for you to trace Dagnar. We both benefit."

Lyon hesitated. She was feeling rather querulous and wanted to reject the offer out of pride. She didn't need Professor Ratigan's help to boost her self-esteem—it would be weak and despicable of her to get help from _this man_, this man who had rejected her nearly seven years earlier.

Her meeting with Jenners at his mansion came to mind. His sneers, his possessive touch on her shoulder… she felt the ghost of the imprint on her muscles, and she shuddered again.

Then, feeling somewhat nauseous, she murmured, "What sort of protection?"

Three days later Lyon found herself on the deck of a ship, bidding farewell to the Napoleon of Crime just before the departure of a rusted old sloop from the docks of the East End, heading to Maidenhead. She was under the protection of two of his most trusted lackeys and a crew of mice unknown to her. After ensuring that she was comfortable in the closet-like room that were to be her quarters, he kissed her hand and strode away, hunched over to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling , his cape flowing into and shrinking from the walls of the narrow passage.

She sat down on the cot that was her bed, suddenly feeling as if her legs could not support her weight. A ship bell tolled in the distance.

She heard the gangplank being removed from the docks, the creak of the anchor as it was raised from the riverbed. She lay down and stared at the lantern on the ceiling, swinging to the rock of the boat.

Lyon opened the porthole and peeked out. On the dock stood the cloaked rat. He raised one white gloved hand to her. Without thinking, she raised her fingers to her mouth, pressed her lips against them, and then extended her hand, palms up, in a gesture to Ratigan.

Her cheeks suddenly flashed hot, and she pulled away from the porthole, horrified by her own actions. Had he noticed to full purport of her actions?

She turned the lantern out in one swift motion as the sloop lurched forward. Heavily perspiring, Lyon dared to look out once more. He remained in the same position as before, with one change. The gloved hand now rested over his heart.


End file.
